


sounds of silence

by nayt0reprince



Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Misunderstandings, Mute Protagonist, Sebastian's Bisexual Awakening: The Fic, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, TW: Passive Suicidal Thoughts, TW: Slight Ableism, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:48:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29223483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nayt0reprince/pseuds/nayt0reprince
Summary: in which sebastian finds himself utterly infatuated with the valley's newest neighbor - and the guy hasn’t even said a word.
Relationships: Abigail & Sam & Sebastian (Stardew Valley) & Original Character(s), One-Sided Sebastian/Abigail, Sebastian/Male Player (Stardew Valley)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 105





	1. it's a big world outside

**Author's Note:**

> heyo hiyo, welcome one and all to “man you know what I need right now?? another project to work on.” so. I recently started this game bc why not, and here we are, in which I’m infatuated with said-game, and literally can’t think about anything else but playing it. thus, this exists. it will be updated every other friday until completion. so pls enjoy and lemme know what u think!
> 
> tw for fic: suicidal ideation, slight ableism (over muteness)

In a rinky-dink place like his hometown, gossip spread like a nasty cold: unwanted, quickly, and through the spittle of words swapped over drinks on a Friday night. The gaming corner of the saloon resided away from the main hub-bub of activity, but Pam never knew how to keep her voice down, nor how to cut herself off after a beer or three. She even sat at the opposite end of the bar, far away from the pool table where Sebastian eyed his next shot, but her barrage of nonsense prattled on louder than those eighteen-wheeler trucks she once drove. 

“You oughtta see him, Gus,” she drawled, and Sebastian lowered himself closer to the table, the tip of the cue stick poised to sink the green ball teetering on the precipice of a hole. “Kid’s taller than anyone _I’ve_ ever seen - damn near shocked me when I rounded the corner, and _tra-la-la,_ there he be.”

Sam bit his thumb, watching Sebastian confidently tap the cue ball. It sailed across the fuzzy green lengths of the table before batting against its target, knocking it right over the edge. The cue ball did not follow; it sat victoriously amidst its falling brethren, ready to send another to their doom. Sebastian only needed to give it that push. He rounded the battlefield - Sam looking on, his impending defeat all but assured - and readied his next attack.

“Built like a brick wall and silent like one, too,” she continued. From the corner of his eye, he saw her wave her half-empty flask around, the piss-colored liquid sloshing to and fro within its confines. “Nothin’ like his grandfather, lemme tell you what. That man could yak off anyone’s ear for _hours,_ but his grandson just bowed his head and made some weird gestures ‘fore doing the same to Evelyn.”

“As I understand it, Lewis told me the grandson is mute.” Gus wiped Pam’s puddling mess off his precious mahogany countertop. “Those ‘weird gestures’ might very well be sign language.”

“Sign lang - ain’t nobody here knows how to speak that!” She slammed her tankard onto the counter, creating an even larger mess on poor Gus’s countertop. Sebastian winced at the resounding and hefty _thud._ “How’s he gonna get along with the valley? Only Demmy’s little girl got the brains to master something like that.”

“Mute, not deaf,” Gus gently corrected. His white towel steadily turned an ugly gold as he rubbed away the lost booze. “He can hear you just fine. I’m sure we can find a work-around. A whiteboard and some markers, maybe.”

“Seb?” Sam snapped his fingers in front of Sebastian’s face, pulling him out of his impromptu eavesdropping session. “You gonna take your shot or what? Don’t leave me hanging in anticipation here.”

“Anticipation’s the best part,” he replied, rolling one of his shoulders before settling in front of the cue ball. The red ball, dangerously close to the dreaded number eight, could either make or break the game.

“Poor kid,” Pam said. She let out a heavy sigh while Sebastian angled his cue stick in an awkward maneuver. “Can’t imagine what that must be like.”

The cue ball _clacked_ against the red, which nudged the eight the wrong way as it rolled toward certain doom. Sebastian braced internally as the eight reached a hole’s edge, then performed the world’s best balancing act. The red ball sank out of sight, clearing the rest of the table. He let out his bated breath and rested the cue stick on his shoulder, cocking an eyebrow.

“What’s that make?” he asked, meeting eyes with Abigail. “Ten to two for this month?”

“Ten to a negative million and three-quarters,” she replied. Sam let out a pitiful groan, running his hand through his spiky hair.

“ _How,_ ” he said, cradling his cue stick like a dying brother-in-arms, “how could I be so _bad?_ You’d think I’d have enough practice at this point. Isn’t the saying ‘practice makes perfect?’”

“So they say,” Abigail tacked on. She stood up from the couch and nudged Sam’s shoulder, and Sebastian quelled the pang of jealousy eating up his stomach. “I’m sure you’ll get there eventually. In about twenty years, and after Seb’s developed arthritis from tapping on a keyboard all day, every day.”

“It’s not _every_ day,” Sebastian muttered, ignoring the fact that yes, in fact, it is almost every day, because he found himself restless when not staring at a block of code or the outline of a client’s designed website or some other such project. He set the rack onto the billiard’s table and recentered the balls back onto the surface. 

“You should take some stretching tips from Alex,” Sam supplied while nudging Abigail back with his elbow. “I know you’re not a huge fan of the guy, but - ow ow!” He flailed when Abigail put him into a headlock, noogie-ing him relentlessly. “I yield! I yield, oh mighty Queen Abigail, Finest Lady in the Land! Please, mercy on my unlucky soul!”

She released him, smug. Sam spent a few seconds fixing his hair - hard to fix what’s so beyond saving, but that wasn’t Sebastian’s problem - and opened his mouth to say something else when the saloon’s door opened.

The breeze carried with it a man and his dirt-laden jacket. The bell jingled behind him when the door shut, a crowd of eyes wandering in his direction. Sebastian didn’t recognize him at all, meaning it had to be that new farmer Pam blabbed on about. Tall was right; the guy might very well rival some of the trees around town. Yet when people stared at him, his shoulders hitched inward, shrinking his existence by a few inches as he shuffled over to Gus’s counter.

“Huh.” Sam picked at the tip of his cue stick, watching the farmer reach the counter and have a weird staring competition with Gus. “He’s, uh. Something.”

“Look at that _hair,_ ” Abigail said, twirling a lock of her own around her pinky. “It’s so long and silky - do you think he and Elliot are related somehow?”

Sebastian didn’t know or care. He shrugged to convey his utter disinterest, albeit cringing internally at the second-hand embarrassment of a grown man floundering on communicating with another person. Gus, for all his exemplary customer service, spared the guy an even bigger scene by simply sliding a pad of paper and a worn-down pencil across the counter. 

“One more round?” Sebastian asked, but both his friends kept their attention on the new guy. Not surprising; it wasn’t often someone _willingly_ came to the valley. Why, he could never understand. He spent most waking hours wanting to kick the town to the curb on his way to Zuzu City. Everyone knew too much about you here, whether you liked it or not and no matter how many times you tried to keep your affairs private.

But what else was there to _do_ around here in the first place?

“One salad, coming up,” Gus said, and the farmer nodded once. “Go on ahead and meet some of the rest of the valley in the meantime, why don’t you? Everyone’s been looking forward to meet you.”

 _Don’t talk for me,_ Sebastian wanted to gripe, but he bit his tongue down. Someone told him once upon a time the sign of a grown-up was knowing when to keep your thoughts to yourself. Perhaps he was maturing, after all, despite all the jabs from his best friends saying otherwise. He turned his back on the conversation, feeling the eyes of the newcomer boring into his back ( _Look, man, I don’t know how to sign. Don’t make this awkward for me._ ) as he lifted the rack to free the balls for another round of Sam’s slaughter.

He thought maybe he could stave away the nuisance of one-sided conversation.

Instead, here came the farmer, his mud-encrusted boots leaving a trail in his wake with each heavy step. Abigail and Sam tilted their heads back just to maintain eye-contact. 

“Hi!” Abigail held out a hand. “Nice to see you, I’m Abigail. These boys here are Sam,” she jerked her head in their direction, “and Sebastian. You’re running the farm, right? Sounds like hard work. What’s your name?”

The jukebox cued up with a familiar jam, and the atmosphere changed from curious whispering to whoops and hollers from the regulars, all rising from their seats to dance. The farmer glanced over his shoulder, eyes wide at the spectacle, before writing his name down on the paper Gus provided. Sebastian spared a glance at it, eying the all-caps, squiggly handwriting reading:

_I’M SUNNY._

“Sunny!” Abigail reached over and patted a surprised Sunny square on the back. “That’s a great name! Hey, when you get a minute, can you write down what hair products you use? I’m super jealous of how nice and shiny you get yours.”

“Can’t I get a word in here?” Sam grinned and gave a quick wave. “You should totally join our band. Three S’s and an A all together? We can be SASS. _SASS._ That’s really cool, man.”

“I dunno, I think I liked the _ASS_ combo myself.” Abigail smirked and burst out laughing at the red tint blossoming on Sunny’s face. “Sorry, buddy. We’re just kind of like this. Don’t be shy to say hello to us from time to time - outside of Sam’s band recruitment. Seriously, we just met the guy.”

“Miss all the shots you don’t take,” Sam replied, making finger-guns. “But yeah, cool to meet you, dude. Hope to see you around more. Right, Seb?”

“What? Can’t hear you over the music,” Sebastian lied. Sam and Abigail exchanged looks and shook their heads before resuming their banter in front of the new farmer. It’s not that he wanted to be _un_ friendly or anything. Just, after meeting, what could they even do together? A farmer and a programmer are in two entirely different worlds. It would be an awkward affair and fall apart before it even began.

Keeping one’s distance from the inevitable is a surefire way to stop getting hurt from the obvious.

He readied his cue stick for a game against himself, and struck the yellow ball. It hurdled toward a corner hole and sank with a heavy _thud_ against the winding plastic pipe.

*

He picked up smoking a handful of years ago as a means to self-medicate. Without an afternoon/evening cigarette, his brain turned to sludge, his attention span shrunk to nothingness, and his legs got the jitters. Walking to the nearby lake also killed some excess built-up energy, too; the mountains made his leg muscles the strongest part of his body, other than his thumbs. 

The lighter flickered a few times before spurting to life, engulfing the end of the cigarette in a dull orange glow. His gaze fixated on the lake’s flat surface. Not many people considered the spot picturesque, given how the lakeside was nothing but mud and rock. Therefore, it was perfect for him. No one else except the homeless guy wandered this way whenever he needed a space to think.

Or at least that used to be the case, until the giant rock blocking one of the lake’s bridges got dismantled, reopening the old mines. No one smart ventured in there willingly. Sebastian did, all of once, on a dare once upon a time as a kid; he couldn’t recall what happened down there from what Harvey said was a “traumatic experience.” Sure, whatever. Sebastian called it “tired memory.” He just now needed to know not to go there anymore.

Someone didn’t pass that memo along to the farmer.

Sebastian heard the labored breathing first, followed by a jingle of metals banging together in a bag. He looked up from the waters and frowned at the mine’s entrance, darker than ever as the sun set. A beat passed, then two. Then a third, followed by a brown hand jutting out of the carved hole. It latched onto frame before pulling the rest of the haggard farmer out. 

_Sunny,_ one part of his brain provided while the other shrieked, _what the fuck is that pink stuff all over him?_

Pink and green and whatever other colors rainbowed together under the sun adorned Sunny’s tattered jacket. The bag he hefted shared the same pallette. Sebastian blinked once as Sunny sheathed a chipped sword around his waist and took a deep, tired breath.

What.

Sebastian remained perfectly still as the potential psychopath-disguised-farmer dragged the bag - _filled with his victims?_ \- along the shore - _nah, sounds like metals. Wait, did he go, like, mining down there?_ \- back over the creaking plank called a “bridge.” It bent from the weight of both Sunny and his bag, almost disappearing into the water - _good Yoba, how strong_ is _he?_

Anyone else seeing this - knowing the residents of the valley - would probably run over and offer him a hand to carry that back. But Sebastian wasn’t “everyone else,” and the bag was roughly half his size. He was no Alex or Abigail. Instead, he watched Sunny’s boots sink hard into the muddy paths, stopping every couple of steps to take a breather or pluck a dandelion.

At the rate he was going - Sebastian checked his cracked cell phone - it’d take the poor guy ten million years to get back home. The cigarette in his hand burned down to a pathetic stub, unsmokeable. Sebastian’s frown deepened as he pocketed the phone and, despite better judgment, ambled over toward Sunny with regretful steps.

“Hey.” He lifted a hand in greeting, to which Sunny lifted his eyebrows in - what, surprise? Shock? Asking who in their right mind, exactly, chilled out by the lakeside at dark o’clock at night? He grabbed the other end of the bag - _holy crap_ \- and winced. “What’re you carrying, a _body?_ ” 

For a moment, Sunny tilted his head in consideration before his lips quirked into a silent, wheezing laugh. It was a weird, guttural sound, as if someone replaced his vocal cords with a whistling train engine. Then he shook his head with a definitive “no” before opening the top of the bag. Even in the dark, Sebastian could make out the telltale glints of bronzes and silvers amidst a sea of black stones. He reached in and picked up one of the shinier ones, pale and cold to the touch yet oddly smooth, before thinking better of it and returning it in the rest of Sunny’s haul.

“This doesn’t look like farming,” he said. 

Sunny nodded. The spring peepers began croaking.

“Well, I mean,” Sebastian frowned and scratched the back of his neck, “vegetable farming. Or whatever. This is more like mineral farming.”

Sunny nodded again. His dark brown eyes twinkled in a peculiar delight at Sebastian’s horrendous attempts at conversing - which, _why the hell am I doing that in the first place_ \- before pulling the string to tie the bag shut once more. He tilted his head in the direction of that old farm, and Sebastian, with a sigh, resigned himself to the fate he bestowed upon himself.

By the time they reached the farm, the sun disappeared and a waning crescent ascended, giving off a dim light to keep track of their footfalls. The path gave way to a heavily wooded mess of annoying tree roots and overturned rocks. Sebastian’s arms quaked from the weight of holding one end of the bag while trying to make sure he didn’t trip. Abigail loved places like this, secluded and overwrought with nature. Clearly she never tried to maneuver in this place in the dark.

A faint light emanated from a cracked window in the distance. Sebastian squinted and spotted the outline of a wooden shack, overcome with sprawling vines. A few feet from it were rows upon rows of sticks, hoisting even more green curly things. His sightseeing distracted him long enough for him to stumble over his own feet. The bag fell with a hefty _clunk._

Sebastian groaned.

“Tell me we’ve made it,” he muttered, rolling onto his back. The stars winked back at him, clear skies foretelling yet another day without much-desired rain. Sunny’s head blocked his view, peering down at him, brow furrowed in concern. “I’m fine. Just. I’m never doing that ever again, got it? One time deal.”

Sunny’s eyes crinkled at their edges - his mom called those “crow’s feet” - before offering a hand. Sebastian took it and felt himself lifted back to steady ground. Was this seriously a farm? He could’ve mistaken it for some backdrop for a horror flick. This guy literally left the city to move _here?_ What sort of madness did one need to catch to do that willingly? Well - he glanced at the stains on Sunny’s clothing - this was a man who ventured into those mines, so anything was possible.

Sunny lifted the bag onto the corroding porch, the wood squeaking in lament at their new burden. He tilted his head upward, letting out a _whoosh_ ing breath, before giving Sebastian a thumbs’ up. Mission accomplished? Sebastian rubbed the back of his neck, diverting his eyes back toward the shack while Sunny jostled through his pockets before pulling out some keys.

Wait.

“Is this _your_ place?”

Sunny blinked, pausing mid-step up the two steps to the door. He pursed his lips, glancing at the shack ready to collapse at any minute from dilapidation, before nodding once. He made a gesture Sebastian interpreted to be, _Want to come in?_ as he unlocked the door.

And people said living in the basement should make someone question their life choices. Sebastian took a step back, hesitant, wondering if the door hinges would give way. Sunny held the door open for a few additional seconds, perplexed, then held it wider - as if _space_ to get in was the problem here. Who invited borderline strangers to just waltz into their homes with zero apprehension?

“Uh,” he said, ever-so-eloquently and with the charismatic equivalent of a goblin king hellbent on world domination, “I mean, are you sure? It’s late.”

Sunny nodded, making the same gesture for Sebastian to come along, before ducking his head to fit under the doorframe. Huh. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, bit his bottom lip, and then sighed as he caved in to curiosity of just how a city boy survived as a greenhorn. If anything, it’ll give him more conversation fuel with Abigail, who expressed interest in getting to know Sunny better. 

Inside didn’t fair much better. An old CRTV sat on the floor next to the lit fireplace. A simple square table, sporting chips in the polish, sat by the window, two mismatched chairs adorning it. And an abundance of plants. Plants made of for a majority of the sparse decorations, leaving much to be desired. Living in such a tiny place for a man so tall sounded horrendous. Sebastian felt a little bad for him.

Sunny held up a pointer finger - _one second_ \- and rummaged through a chest of drawers, looking for something. Sebastian stuffed his hands into his sweatshirt’s pocket, fingers picking at the lint buildup when he felt something small rub up against his legs. He almost let out an undignified squawk, but he managed to swallow it when he looked down. A cat. A cat, striped and snuggly, paced back and forth along Sebastian’s calves, shedding ample amounts of gray fur all over his jeans. 

He never had a pet before. He liked animals, but they took a lot of commitment and money and resources he didn’t have the energy to indulge in. He squatted down, frowning at the little guy who kept pacing for attention, its tail flicking about to and fro. The nameplate on its collar read “RASCAL.”

“Sure live up to your name, don’t you,” Sebastian muttered, one hand petting the little critter while the other picked at the static-infested fur clinging to the denim. His attention shifted back to the farmer, who approached with a small bag dwarfed in his hands. Sebastian rose.

“What?” His brow furrowed when Sunny pushed the bag into Sebastian’s care. “For me? Why? Oh, for that?” He clicked his tongue when Sunny pretended to heft up an imaginary bag. “It’s fine, you don’t have to give me anything for it. I didn’t have anything else to do, and you needed a hand. No, really, you don’t - okay, okay, I’ll look. Fine.”

White bushels enshrined in greenery stared back at him from their plastic confines. Cauliflower. A whole half a dozen of them, too. Sebastian licked his lips and returned Sunny’s brimming confidence with sheepish gratitude. “Okay - okay. I won’t say no if you’re so insistent. Thanks. You know, I like this sort of stuff.”

Sunny’s eyebrows lifted, then nodded once to himself. He clapped his hands together and bowed - _thank you again,_ Sebastian assumed - before giving Sebastian a shy smile. Pam was right; communicating with him without a drop of sign language knowledge was going to be a pain. Learning languages proved time-consuming and horribly frustrating to many people for a reason. 

Then again, he learned C++ and a handful of other coding languages for fun. 

“Right. I guess I’ll head out then?” He waved, which Sunny mimicked. “Yeah. Cool. Goodnight.”

The door squeaked shut behind him, and the crisp spring air greeted him. Walking back home through the brush and bramble this late was going to be a pain. He groaned, and lit another cigarette for a pick-me-up. 

_Why’s such a small place like Pelican Town got to be so big outside?_

Too bad it wasn’t as big as Zuzu City.

He inhaled, filling his lungs with the slow-acting poisons not quite strong enough to kill him yet, and exhaled slowly, stepping off Sunny’s slipshod front porch. What a way to live. Sebastian couldn’t understand it. Giving away produce when he could be selling it to work on his joke of a house? He almost felt bad, feeling the weight of the cauliflower slowing him down with second thoughts. Should he return it?

No - no. If he returned it, the farmer might get the wrong idea and think Sebastian was calling his cauliflower shitty or something like that. He was antisocial, not a dick. Even he had social standards he abided to. _Oh, you seem really poor, you sure you should be making bad financial decisions by thanking me?_ Yeah, a real great way to start off a friendship, for sure. Maru would’ve been over the _moon_ with him for that one. He rolled his eyes and stepped cautiously over a fallen branch, determined to never be tripped up again.

Friendship, huh?

He flicked the burning end of his cigarette, palm pressed against a tree trunk as he hopped over a huge rock. Well, it could be, but Sebastian wasn’t really looking for that right now. He had his hands full with Sam and Abigail as-is, and he only had two hands. Two hands that couldn’t sign, either. 

The cauliflower bag jostled by his side as he finally made it through the maze comprising the farm. A dirt path wound around the taller cliffs of the valley’s mountains. Not far from home now, where his mom would undoubtedly question him where he’s been and why he’s out late. Maru loved cauliflower, so she’d either swipe one out of the fridge or use it in one of her experiments. He sighed. The idea of going back and dealing with his family sucked.

But it’s not like he could just live outside forever. He kind of needed his computer for his work. Ditching it right now just wasn’t feasible, as appealing as it might seem. Besides, at this hour, they all could very well be asleep by now. No one around to annoy him.

Still. He paused, glancing over his shoulder. The dim light emanating from Sunny’s shack window danced between the shadows like a will-o-wisp. What was it like, leaving everything he knew just to come here? Did he regret it? Enjoy it? Not like he could get an answer, anyways. It was useless to think about, but Sebastian wanted a frame of reference for his questionable, daunting future.

If he even had one.

He dropped the cigarette to the ground and stomped on it, smothering out the light, then picked it up to take it back to the place he unfortunately called “home.”


	2. the valley comes alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank y'all for giving this fic a chance! I supremely appreciate it and all ur kudos/comments; they keep me motivated to keep at it. and so, without further ado, here be chapter two - pls enjoy and lemme know what u think!!

Cooking proved itself a tiresome ordeal that plagued his every hungry moment. Measurements this, ingredients that; step upon step compiling on each other toward the ever-distant doorway to dinner. By the time he decided whatever it was he wanted for the evening, Demetrius or his mother conjured up plans he had no part to play in. Whatever got made, he wolfed down, never bothering to revel in its flavor. Just another means to get his fingers to work, flexing what feeble dexterity they had over a keyboard.

Today, though. His forefinger rapped against the kitchen counter, staring at the plentiful cauliflowers sitting before him. Today would be different. 

He liked cauliflower. They reminded him of bleached brains, if you looked at them the right way and under the correct mood lighting. Some might call that morbid. He called it a typical Tuesday noontime thought. Okay, well, not really _typical,_ since it wasn’t often some brickwall of a man bestowed unto him the gift of _brassica oleracea_ (which apparently was the super stupidly specific scientific subcategory Sebastian seldom said, but Demetrius was keen on having him memorize it for whatever reason). 

And since he had so much of it - six bushels worth - he might as well do something with them before they became fermented brains fit only for jars on some serial killer’s desk. It’d be a waste of a present.

(And how often did he get those?)

He scowled at the incessant pop-ups plaguing the mobile version of a recipe website, batting at the “X’s” with his thumb in an epic battle to test his patience. Seriously, why did cooking have to be so complicated? The food processor awaited its sacrifice, blades poised to slice the florets to paste. A slew of other foods - eggs, cheeses, and a variety of different spices he pillaged from the cupboard - stood in attendance, awaiting their turn. He let out a slow, aggravated sigh when he at last closed the final advertisement standing in his way of doing what his mother might call a sign of Yoba’s second coming.

Alright. Here goes… something.

He picked up a knife he hoped was a paring knife (knives were knives, as far as he was concerned, all meant to chop crap up) and wormed it into the cauliflower’s leaves. They fell to the wayside easily. So far, so good. He ushered the brainy-bits under the faucet, soaking them good from whatever fertilizer and other gunk clung to it. Not bad. He splayed them out onto the cutting board like a specimen in preparation for dissection, his makeshift scalpel glinting in the kitchen light. The cut split the cauliflower in half, then in uneven quarters. Hey, he was no doctor, he was just a programmer. It’d have to do.

“Whoa. Did I put on the wrong glasses, or am I seeing this right?”

Ugh. Sebastian frowned as he pointedly ignored his sister’s - _half_ -sister’s - snark and began separating the florets by hand. Maru pursed her lips, approaching the kitchen counter and picking up one of the eggs. 

“It’s weird for you to be in the kitchen for longer than five minutes at a time,” she added, inspecting its shell. “It’s kind of nice to see you. You know?”

Why did she do this every time? Maru, with her portrait next to the dictionary definition of “a parent’s pride and joy,” trying to extend an olive branch to her comparatively dreadful “waste of space” older brother. He knew the score, even if he claimed he never kept a tally. He grunted and pushed the florets into the processor. 

“Um,” she tried again, “what’re you making?”

She wouldn’t stop bothering him unless he humored her, huh. He clicked his tongue as the blades whirred to life, turning the cauliflower into a squishy mound. “Don’t you have work today at the clinic or something?”

“Seb, it’s Wednesday.”

“Oh.” So it was. He could’ve sworn it was Tuesday. 

“Are you going to tell me what you’re making, or should I throw out a couple of hypotheses?” She pushed up her glasses, squinting at the ingredients with heightened scrutiny. “Actually, _don’t_ tell me, it’s more fun that way. I’m thinking… _hm._ Garlic bread?”

“How can you make bread without yeast,” Sebastian drawled, scooping out the cauliflower paste and smearing it onto the baking pan. “I thought you were the smart one.”

“Actually, you can make plenty of different types of bread without - anyways.” She waved her hand, dismissing the petty argument. “If not garlic bread, then I believe you’re making pizza crust. Right?”

He shrugged, secretly miffed she got it so quickly. A knowing smile crossed her face; _ugh,_ why was she so - so - 

“What kind of pizza?”

“Uh.” He blinked at the disarming question, then stared at baking pan. He scratched the back of his neck. “Cauliflower pizza?”

“You don’t sound so certain there. Do you maybe,” she tilted her head, “want some help? With deciding, I mean. I won’t get in your way, I promise.”

A little too late for that. Still, it would do no good if he made a pizza crust and had no actual plans for what _type_ of pizza he wanted to munch on. The silence stretched on between them, and Maru, always one to catch on quick, nodded once before approaching the refrigerator. She hummed some tune he recognized but couldn’t quite place the name to, assessing their options. Sebastian returned his focus to the oven, preheated to - he doublechecked - right, 375 degrees. He shoved the baking pan into the oven’s gaping maw before setting the timer to fifteen minutes.

“We’ve got some tomatoes Dad bought, some peppers, and some onions here.” Maru precariously balanced a growing mound of vegetables in one arm while her other hand rifled through the bottom drawers. “I’d say mushrooms, but you’re not a huge fan of those, right? How about olives?”

“Only your dad in this house likes those nasty things.”

Maru gave a small, sad smile: “You know, he’s your dad, too. Technically speaking.”

The corner of Sebastian’s upper lip twitched, a plethora of counterproductive arguments ready to spit venom at her assertion. Instead, he swallowed the poisons back down, choking on it and letting it fester in his gullet. He ground his teeth together, stare pointedly fixated on the timer which wasn’t counting down fast enough.

An awkward silence ensued. Maru filled the void by pulling out another cutting board and spilling the amassed toppings onto the counter. She inspected the bell pepper in her hands, tongue sticking out in thought, before beheading the stem. Huh. Sebastian frowned, watching just how dexterous she was with her hands. His mental image of her working on anything was more or less a bombastic, messy image; she had a lab, and labs often belonged to mad scientist archetypes. Instead, she diced the pepper with the finesse of a true pizza connoisseur, followed by the tomatoes. 

She hesitated when it came to the red onion’s turn.

“Um. Do you mind cutting this for me? I seriously cry every time I slice open one of these things and my face gets super puffy.”

“Seriously?” Sebastian rolled his eyes and took the offered knife. “That stuff’s just overexaggerated in TV shows. Maybe you’ve just got low onion constitution.”

“Have you never cut an onion before?”

“No, but,” he lobbed off the icky root end and plucked the flaky skin off, “I’ve seen Mom do it a lot, and she _never_ tears up or anything.” 

“Mom has super powers in cooking. She must have mastered the technique or something. Just be careful, okay?”

“No, you’re just a wuss.” He plunged the knife into the center of the onion, splitting it in half. He waited a moment for the rumored malicious onion tears - but nothing happened. Smug, he side-eyed Maru while cutting the halves into quarters, then began turning them into smaller, more manageable sections for dicing. He blinked a few times, nose wrinkling, then balked. A _sting_ plucked tears from his eyes, digging itty bitty daggers into his retinas and forcing water to pour profusely from the ducts. 

Maru quirked an eyebrow while keeping a reasonable distance on the other side of the kitchen. “Soooo,” she said, removing her glasses and wiping the lenses with her shirt, “if it makes _me_ a wuss, does that make _you_ a wuss too, or?”

“Shut up.” Holy shit, _ow._ He rubbed at his eyes with his sleeves - “Wait, don’t do tha - oh dear” - and immediately regretted it, the stinging amplifying to an unbearable burn. He grimaced, eyes squeezing shut. “Ow, ow _ow_ \- what do I do to make it stop?!”

“Here, lemme -” the faucet rushed on, “okay, wash your hands first, then dab at your eyes with cold water. It’ll help flush them out from the gas.”

“I’m never cooking again,” Sebastian groaned, blindly swatting for the soap dispenser and smearing the pumpkin pie-scented goo over every inch of skin his hands possessed. He splashed his face a few times, pushing the base of his palms against his eyes to get them to stop crying like some lonely toddler. He breathed out slowly, feeling the sting alleviate after a few moments, then blinked rapidly when he lifted up his head out of the sink.

“Let’s leave the onions to Mom next time,” Maru suggested.

“Good call. Pre-sliced onion only zone from here on out.”

After the now hereby titled “Onion Incident,” the rest of the cooking process went relatively smoothly. Maru took over onion duty after the initial tear-producing fiasco passed while Sebastian squeezed the life out of the cooled cauliflower paste, draining all of its excess fluids. He glanced over the recipe and followed the mixing instructions - _egg, cheese, spices, this isn’t looking so bad?_ \- before laying out the uncooked crust on the pan as evenly as possible. 

Maru whistled. “That looks really good. You’ve got a knack for this, you know that?”

“You’re just saying that so you can have a piece,” he dismissed. Since when did Maru (or anyone in the household) compliment him so willy-nilly? He pushed the crust into the oven and cranked up the temperature to 450 degrees. They weren’t even done yet and he was already exhausted from all the effort. 

She frowned, then shook her head, unwilling to argue. She settled for changing the topic instead. “Where’d you get the cauliflower anyhow? I didn’t think Dad bought any when he went grocery shopping the other day.”

“Oh. Uh,” Sebastian shrugged, fingers picking at the lint dotting his sweatshirt pocket’s lining, “that new farmer gave some to me. For some reason.”

Maru’s eyes brightened, smile returning to her lips. “You mean Benny? No, shoot, what was his name, it’s on the tip of my tongue - the one running the old Starshine Farms on the edge of town. Tall guy?”

“I think it’s Sunny.” 

“ _That’s_ it, yes.” She nodded a few times to herself. “I’m surprised he’s able to grow anything there to begin with. It’s totally rundown.”

Rundown was an understatement of the century. Borderline uninhabitable was more like it. Sebastian gave a noncommittal hum in acknowledgement. The guy seemed to make it work, though, if the cauliflower was of any indication. His mind wandered to the shack played off as a place of residence; there was barely any space between the top of Sunny’s head and the sinking ceiling. _Must be a total pain, having to duck all the time._

“I heard that he came from _the_ Zuzu City,” she continued, leaning back against the countertop. “Wonder what he did beforehand, you know? Like for his job. Maybe a star basketball player?”

“Why not, oh I dunno, ask him instead of me?”

Maru gave him a flat stare. “You know why.”

Right. _Guy can’t talk._ Sebastian sighed, scratching the back of his head as he glanced at the oven. Why couldn’t the timer read “0:00” already?

“Although I have been watching ViewTube videos during breaks and whatnot to try and learn FSL to make it easier for him. It’s actually kind of neat how sign language breaks down sentence structures. Did you know that question indicators are usually put at the end? Like, instead of saying, ‘what are you doing,’ it’s more like ‘you doing what?’ Cool, huh?”

“You would find that cool.” Sebastian’s flat tone hoped to convey his utter disinterest in the topic. They barely talked as it was, and now she’s just rambling on and on and _on_ about things he couldn’t care less about. Yeah, Sunny signed. So what? It wasn’t Sebastian’s responsibility to learn how to speak something else just because a stranger he knew nothing about spoke it. Er, _signed_ it. Whatever.

Then again. He frowned, glancing at the littered remains of the cauliflower among the other vegetable waste. If he took Sam up on his offer for joining their band, then it’d be somewhat beneficial for them to have a way to understand him. 

_If he even plays an instrument. Why can I see him with a classical cello?_

He flipped the cauliflower crust once carefully, baking it for a few additional minutes, before removing it from the oven to cool a little. Maru licked her lips in anticipation, already hurrying to pull out the tomato sauce they had buried in the back of the pantry. She scooped out hefty gloops of it onto the crust with a spoon while Sebastian adorned it with some more cheese.

“Pizza,” she said, followed by a peculiar gesture with her hands. Sebastian quirked a nonplussed eyebrow. “You hold up two fingers like this, then make an air ‘Z,’ followed by closing the two fingers into your palm. _Or_ you can do it like this.” She created a makeshift scoop with her palm, thumb jutting out as she shoved an imaginary pizza slice into her mouth twice. “I think this one’s easier myself.”

“Oh.” _Fore and middle finger like air quotes, Z, close it, or shoveling dough._ “Okay.” _Not that I’m gonna bother remembering that._

She scattered the toppings - including the traitorous red onion bits - on top of the cheese, and Sebastian put it back into the oven for a handful more minutes. His fore and middle fingers crooked like claws and danced in a zigzag pattern before closing. Huh. He didn’t quite understand that one. She was right, the other one made a lot more sense.

“That smells _good._ Think it’s ready yet?”

“Timer hasn’t gone off.”

“You know, you always say I’m a stickler for rules, but you tend to follow them a lot more than me,” she noted. “It’s been in there long enough, don’t you think? Come on, I’m hungry.”

With a reluctant sigh, Sebastian donned the sheep-patterned oven mitts his mother purchased on a whim last year, then removed the long-awaited prize from its heated confines. The cheese drooled over itself, steam wafting delicious temptation for them to just dive into it as soon as possible.

“I might have to borrow this recipe from you.” Maru dug out their trusty pizza cutter from one of the silverware drawers. “I _love_ cauliflower.”

 _She does?_ It felt weird to have something in common, what with being in two entirely different worlds. He made a sound of acknowledgment and watched her divide the pizza into eighths. Then, with the delicateness of a zookeeper taming a feral tiger, she reached for the scorching slab and quickly slid it onto her plate. 

“Drum roll, please.” 

“What? I’m not Sam. Do your own drum roll.”

“But this is a very special occasion, Seb. This is the first time I’ve ever eaten something you made.” She nodded once, as if completely, totally serious. Why would she be serious about something like that? “It’s what they call a ‘momentous occasion,’ I’ll have you know. In fact, we should take a picture to show Mom and Dad. They’ll have a field day learning you made something.”

“Let’s not do that.”

“Suit yourself. Drum roll?”

He sighed, long and hard, before indulging in her arbitrary nonsense. His hands whacked the nearby table in a less-than-enthused buildup for her first bite. She lifted it up, borderline _beaming_ with unfounded pride, and her teeth clacked together from her mighty _chomp._

She chewed slowly. Sebastian caught himself holding his breath, scowled, and folded his arms across his chest to portray his lack of investment in the outcome. It was going to taste bad, she was going to make a joke at his expense, and then he’ll eat the rest of the pizza down in the cave of his room while wasting away on projects with much-too-soon deadlines - 

_“Wow,_ ” she said, “this _is_ really good!”

He exhaled. “Oh.”

“No, really, Seb - this is super delicious. Seriously, I’m gonna need a copy of that recipe, stat. Can you shoot me a text of the link for the crust later? _Mmm._ ” She scarfed down the rest of her slice before helping herself to another. 

“Geez, save me some, why don’t you?” He rolled his eyes and grabbed a plate from the overhead cupboard, standing on his tiptoes to reach. Curse his verticality problems. Maru - taller than him, because of _course_ she was - grabbed it for him and put a slice on it. “Thanks,” he muttered between teeth, avoiding eye contact. He could’ve just hopped onto the counter and got it. No need to showcase her clear superiority like that.

The pizza tasted - well, it tasted different from the one Gus made down at the saloon. He cocked his head to the side, staring up at the ceiling while assessing the flavor. Maybe - just maybe - Maru was right. Maybe it _did_ taste good. He took another bite. Yeah. Yeah, it _did._ His stare shifted back to the half-eaten slice, briefly admiring his handiwork. _He_ made this.

“You should give some to Sunny.” Maru licked her fingers drizzled in tomato sauce. “I’m sure he’d love to know that the fruits of his labor can make something mouth-watering, you know?”

He wasn’t partial to that idea. He frowned a little and finished the rest of his first slice before grabbing a second. A selfish part of him would rather devour what remained, but… Maybe Maru had a point. Maybe he should give some to the farmer who helped make it happen, in a way. Besides, he never ate much - unlike Sam, who could pack it away until the cows came home.

“I guess,” he replied, giving a noncommittal shrug. Still, Maru seemed pleased at that, giving him a soft smile.

“Well, this was fun, cooking together.” She rinsed off her plate and dunked it into the vacant sink. “We should do it again sometime. It really was nice, doing something _siblingly_ for once. I think that’s the word.”

“Mm.” He bit his bottom lip, unable to find it in his heart to agree. She still agitated him, being the perpetual source for many of his inferiority complex problems. Her and Demetrius both. What Mom saw in that man, he didn’t know; but like the stubborn stain on the knee of his favorite jeans, he’s here to stay. 

(Unlike Dad.)

Maru nodded once, taking his response as her cue to leave, before wandering down the hallway back into her room/lab. He lingered in the kitchen a few moments longer, ruminating on what to do with the rest of the pizza, before sighing and finding a small plastic bag to put other slices in. The small hill of dishes watched him pointedly avoid their gaze, informing him in silence that he should not leave a mess for his parents to walk in on, lest he receive another lecture of a lifetime.

Fine. Fine, fine - first wash the dishes, then find Sunny. He didn’t want the evidence of his cooking to remain for them to ask him annoying questions like “what did you make” and “can I have some.” 

He had enough headaches as it was already.

*

Sunny wasn’t at the wastelands - er, farm. He certainly was there earlier, what with the small plot of budding crops glistening with a fresh splash of water drip-drip-dripping off their succulent leaves. Rascal peered out from behind the sprawling tall grasses, a striped tail flicking and batting at the resurgence of flies and other bugs. Their return meant the frogs will come soon to snack on them. Sebastian couldn’t wait.

“Hey,” he said to Rascal, who eyed him from his - her? - hiding spot. “Where’s your owner? I’ve got something to give him.”

Rascal let out a keen _murble_ before disappearing into the thicket. Sebastian sighed, scratching the back of his head. He was itching for a cigarette. He hardly went outside except to chat with his two friends or to smoke. But he wasn’t sure if Sunny allowed smoking on his property, plus he had no idea if the released chemicals would affect the crops somehow. He knew next to nothing about farming, but he knew the damage smoking did to his lungs.

_Why am I doing this again?_

The stored pizza, still warm, sat lightly in the small bag he carried with him. His weight shifted from one foot to the other before deciding to head southbound through the trees and grass to see if Sunny were around somewhere. During daylight, the troublesome roots and natural walls composed of pines didn’t bother his trek as much. In fact - he inhaled slowly - it was kind of nice, in a weird way. Natural. Undisturbed by mankind - or at least reclaiming what rightfully belonged to the earth. Or something. He’s not a poet; Sam wrote the lyrics to their jams.

The winding woods of a farm tapered off into Pelican Town’s Cindersap Forest. Sebastian cast a glance over his shoulder in case he missed Sunny somehow (which seemed impossible, given the man probably was voted “most likely to get found in hide-in-seek” in middle school). Nothing. Great. He sighed and turned his attention to the sprawling wilderness laid out before him. Nothing but trees, bushes, overturned rocks and Yoba knew what else resided there. In the spring, the valley really came alive with activity, an abundance of new growths and flowers finding homes in any spare space to be found. It almost felt _too_ busy. He could be consumed by the woods if he wasn’t careful.

The little pond, a little ways from the daunting forest, was nice and less dizzying, but - 

(“Sebby?” Dad smiled and knocked on his door. The gap between his front teeth was all the more prominent. “Wanna come fishing with Papi?”

“It’s _so early,_ ” little Sebastian whined, having disobeyed his parents and stayed up way too late watching cartoons. “Dun’ wanna.”)

\- but it had too many memories. Sebastian frowned at the pond, its old rotting deck barren of any person here to fi - wait. He squinted, spotting an unfamiliar small bag and a worse-for-wear fishing rod sprawled out along the wooden planks, abandoned. A plastic red cooler sat beside it, closed shut. That’s weird. He looked around - nobody to be seen - before tilting his head upon catching the faint plunks of an electronic piano tune from nearby. In the shadows, he couldn’t see a discernable source for the sound.

 _Forest’s haunted, we should ditch,_ one side of his mind decided, while the other said, _screw it, we can give the ghosts some decent pizza to appease them before making a run for it. Or they could kill us. Win-win either way._

Against all better judgment (his judgment resided with Abigail, who wasn’t here to give her correct opinion at the moment, and who would just encourage them to risk their lives anyhow), he meandered toward the source, careful to soften his footfalls to not give away his location for any bloodthirsty ghosts who wanted a snack. The sound of piano and violin grew steadily louder, tucked away between the tall trees enshrouding a miniature clearing. Sebastian paused at the clearing’s entrance, balancing himself on one of the oaks.

Sunny. His phone sat on a stump on full-blast, tune jamming from the speakers _eerily_ familiar. Sunny himself tapped on his phone, replaying the same chipper song while he got into position for - for something. Sebastian frowned, confused until Sunny took a step to the left, then to the right - _oh, he’s dancing. That’s weird, is he a professional or something? No, he keeps tripping over himself, so is he practicing? For what? Wait - wait, oh no -_

_Oh, shit, he’s dancing to that flower song for that damn festival!_

Why that stupid mayor forced such an equally stupid town-wide event on the residents, Sebastian could only hazard a guess. Sadism, probably. Those dance outfits felt stiff and constraining and far too stuffy for Sebastian’s fashion sense. Every spring brought that dreaded day with it, and every year it takes him by surprise with its impending arrival. He wanted to wither away and die right on the spot. 

Well, if he danced with Abigail, it wouldn’t be _so_ bad. His cheeks burned for a moment at the thought: Abigail, donning an uncharacteristic white dress, hair pulled back, humorous eyes setting upon him and staring into his soul, and by Yoba, he’d bare everything to her, because she understood him better than most and was cute as hell to boot. She accepted his dance proposal last year. Maybe she’d do it again this year.

_Maybe during the dance, I can tell her - nah, don’t get ahead of yourself there. You’ll never have that courage, no matter what stat-boosting equipment you might have._

A snap of fingers brought him out of his stupor. He blinked once, then lifted his head to the up-close and startling Sunny, who tilted his head in confusion.

“Bwah!” Sebastian backpedaled a few steps and slammed into one of the trees, lichen and moss now taking up residence on the back of his beloved sweatshirt. Sunny’s hands flew up in apology. “No, _shit,_ no, you’re fine, I just - I got lost in thought. It’s cool. You’re good. Don’t worry.”

Sunny’s furrowed brow remained unconvinced, but he lowered his fussing hands nonetheless. He offered a hesitant smile in greeting instead, to which Sebastian lifted his hand in an uncertain wave. 

“Um.” Sebastian struggled to pluck off all the uninvited green crap from his sweatshirt. “Judging by the music, I guess you’re planning to go to the dance too soon from now, huh. I’m sure that mayor’ll let you pass if you tell him you have too much work on your farm to do if you’d rather, like, not.” 

Sunny shrugged and shook his head. Sebastian interpreted that to be _I actually don’t mind._ Weird. He could count on one hand the number of people who actually enjoyed participating.

“Then I’ll see you there. I get forced to go every year.” Sebastian let out a haggard sigh. “Things like dances and the social aspects around them aren’t that fun for me. Plus I _suck_ at dancing.”

Sunny’s smile lightened some, nodding in agreement. He pointed to himself, attempted a stumbling jig of a dance, then shook his head as if to say, _I suck, too._ He let out a raspy laugh before picking up his phone and pausing the earworm passing miserably as music. Sure, he might suck, but he bothered to try _practicing_ before showing up and making a fool of himself. Sebastian gave him credit there.

“Uh, you hungry at all?” He rummaged through his bag and pulled out the cauliflower pizza slices. The toppings clung to the fogged-up plastic. “I made this earlier today from the cauliflower you gave me. It turned out pretty good, so I don’t want it to go to waste or anything.” 

Sunny, interest piqued, accepted the bag from Sebastian. He inspected its contents, appearing perplexed.

“Oh, it’s cauliflower-crust pizza.” He made the subconscious motion as he uttered the words: two fingers clawed dancing in a “Z” pattern before closing against his palm. “It’s got pepper and onions and tomatoes on them. I’m never using onions for anything ever again, so think of it like a limited-edition Sebastian pizza - what? Why’re you staring at me like that?”

Sunny’s lips parted, pizza balanced in one of his large hands, before mirroring Sebastian’s motion: claw, Z, close to palm. Sebastian nodded, uncomprehending what the deal was. “Yeah, pizza. I guess it’s a bit of a surprise to use cauliflower for the crust. I was racking my brain on how to use it, so the power of Google came through for me on that one - no? That’s not it? Uh. What’s up then?”

With a little more urgency, Sunny made the same sign for “pizza” before his smile widened from ear-to-ear. Sebastian’s eyes narrowed, still not catching on until Sunny did it a third time. Then the realization slammed into him like a derailing freight train absconding from its tracks at the behest of a drunken operator wanting to fly off a cliff: _Oh, Yoba, I signed that. I signed it to Sunny. I bet I totally did that wrong._

“That - I mean,” how the hell was he going to get out of this one? “I just, I learned that an hour ago or so, yeah. Pizza.” He repeated the sign, looking away. “It’s - yeah. It’s the only one I know. Sorry to get your hopes up, I don’t know,” _crap, what did Maru say it was again? FSC? No, uh -_ “FSL at all.”

Sunny’s delight hardly diminished. If anything, his joy seemed to double, almost mingling with the palpable spring air. Sebastian swallowed it down, embarrassment pricking his cheeks. Why was this guy so - so _happy_ over _nothing?_ He heard the plastic bag open, then the telltale munching of pizza. His anxious nerves remained on high-alert when Sunny smacked his lips and took another bite.

He then made a gesture. Sebastian lifted his gaze off the dirt clinging to his shoes to get a glimpse, but he missed it. Sunny nodded, then performed the gesture again - closed eyes, middle finger pressed to his upper lip, then withdrawing from his face before his middle finger connected with his thumb. He did it two more times, nodding emphatically at Sebastian, who felt a cold sweat bead along his forehead.

“So… it’s good?” he asked, to which Sunny nodded. He tapped awake his phone, thumbs energized in tapping out a message, before hoisting the screen up to Sebastian’s face:

_DELICIOUS._

And then he made the sign again. _Delicious._

Sebastian’s ears burned at the compliment. From Maru, they rang hollow, even if she were being genuine. He couldn’t trust her word, what with being his not-really sister. But hearing such praise from a stranger - well. His chest swelled in a newfound pride. _Delicious. He thinks it’s delicious._

“Okay,” he said, then cleared his throat to chase the sheepishness threatening to infect his tone. “Cool. I’m glad. Thanks again for the cauliflower.”

Sunny bowed and nodded his head before taking more bites of the food. Another creeping awkwardness settled onto Sebastian’s shoulders, who took a step back.

“Well, I gotta, uh. Get back to work and stuff, so.” He waved, which Sunny nodded to and mimicked. “Oh, and don’t forget your stuff on the docks. It’s yours, right? The fishing rod? You probably shouldn’t leave that unattended in the future, just in case. Not that the people here are thieves or anything, but still. Like, a bird could come and, you know.” He made a swooping motion with his hand, carrying his other hand away. “Not that it _would,_ but - never mind. I’m rambling. I haven’t had my cigarette today, so my brain’s kind of - yeah. Bye.”

Sunny’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he gave Sebastian another wave. Sebastian turned around and sped up his pace to get back to his basement. This was why he never talked to people. It never turned out well and always lasted for too long because he couldn’t figure out the right words to say. It tired him out faster than exercising, which was saying something. Still, compared to _other_ conversations - if you could call that babbling a “conversation” - it didn’t go too terribly. Maybe. Unless Sunny was laughing behind Sebastian’s back right now.

For some reason, he didn’t buy that mental image. It didn’t mesh with what little he knew of Sunny. If anything, the guy seemed - dare Sebastian assume - kind. 

_Delicious,_ he had said. Signed. Whichever. 

The compliment followed him all the way back home, accompanied by a distant piano and a flowery violin.


	3. wild horseradish jam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyo hiyo, welcome back! thank y’all again so terribly kindly for all y’alls support in ur kudos and comments; I appreciate it!! and so, here we be for chapter 3 - pls enjoy and lemme know what u think!

(The same dream again:

Free-floating honey-nut Jeerios bob in the turbulent milk sea, banging off the unforgiving porcelain shores of his cereal bowl. His spoon spins in fast, rhythmic circles, churning up a whirlpool to sink the oat boats into its white depths. He imagines a panicked crew running across the deck, shouting _may-day, may-day!_ while trying to steer away from the milk guardian’s wrath, only to fall to despair upon realizing they are trapped. He giggles to himself, watching the soggy oats gurgle then emerge then disappear again.

“Have a good day, Sebby.” Mummy plants a kiss on top of his head, and he wrinkles his nose, unenthused to have his fantasy disrupted. “Make sure to drink all your milk. You want to grow up big and strong, don’t you? Dear,” she calls, “if you two decide to head out, make sure he takes off his boots by the door, or else _you’re_ cleaning the mud off the floor this time.”

“Loud and clear, honey.”

“And don’t forget to take out the fish out of the freezer.”

“If you have time to harp, that must mean you’re not running as late as you say you are, hm?” 

Mummy’s teeth click together when she closes her mouth, fuming in silence at Dad’s point. She grabs her keys off the key rack, waves to Sebastian, and steps out into the rain-drenched world outside. Rainy weekends are the _best_ weekends. He forces the milk down (the honey makes it more tasty than usual) and stampedes back to his bedroom. Today will be an _adventure_ day, as Dad likes to call it.

He throws on a bright-yellow graphic t-shirt full of cartoon animals, some pants, and a set of mismatched socks before barreling back into the living room, sliding across the polished floor. He does a few more wind-ups and slides, grinning to himself, before tilting his head to listen for Dad. There’s the shaking like a baby’s rattle, _one two three four, ra-ta-ta-ta_ and a distinct grunt from the bathroom. The sink rushes a few moments later, another shaking sound, and a long-winded sigh. 

_Dad’s “getting ready.”_

Most adults drink some icky brown liquid to perk themselves up. Not Dad; he does an entirely different routine, one Sebastian isn’t privy to, and one he never performs while Mummy is still around. It’s “their secret,” Dad’s words, even though Sebastian doesn’t even know what that secret is.

Dad comes out of the bathroom a few moments later, fully shaven and hair still dripping from the shower. He gives Sebastian a toothy grin (the most memorable part about him. Sebastian may forget all else about his father, but that gap-toothed grin haunts him) before staggering toward the kitchen.

“Dad, can we go see the mermaids today?”

“Hmm.” Dad strokes his chin in thought before pulling out an energy bar. Unlike Mummy, he doesn’t have to go to work because he’s a _feline._ Or something. Sebastian doesn’t fully understand and nobody’s bothered to explain it because he’s too young, but it means more time with Dad. “Rain’s wicked, buddy. If we go looking for them mermaids and we make a mistake, we could very well tumble right into their home. Don’t wanna be doing that now, do we?”

“Then,” Sebastian tries, “how ‘bout the fairy pond?”

“ _That_ we can do.” Dad’s eyes sparkle with his grin. “Lemme just get the dinner ingredients all prepped so Mummy don’t have an excuse to get upset, then we’ll go on out. Get your coat and boots ready.”

Time darts from moment to moment like a dragonfly, zipping to and from one instant to the next with little recollection of the journey, hovering in one scene longer than the rest of the blurs. Sebastian stands on the edge of the pond, batting aside the cat’s tails while training his ear for the telltale croaks. Frogs like to come out when it rains to belch out their thanks in a unified hymn to the rain fairies, or so Dad says. That’s why it rains so much in spring compared to the other seasons. The more frogs, the more thanks for all the hard work the fairies bring, and the more likely they’d bless the valley with their gifts.

Dad sits on the dock under a propped umbrella, casting a fishing line. He’s not very good at it, or so he claims. One time, he sat there for four hours and hauled in a whopping two fish - and he called that a _good_ day. Fish don’t like him, apparently.

Sebastian traps a peeper in his hands before dumping it into his orange pail filled with pond water. Holding frogs for too long is bad for them. He lugs the pail back to Dad in excitement, showcasing his finds: a few green ones, a few brown ones. None of the super-colorful poisonous ones he sees in the magazines, but still cool all the same in his book.

“Any signs of the princess?” asks Dad.

“Nope,” says Sebastian, “but lots of her guards. This one’s Toaderson the second. He’s in charge of, uh, of the, um. C. Cal… _cave-airy._ The ones who ride fish into battle.”

“Calvary,” Dad corrects, retracting his line and casting it elsewhere into the pond. 

“Yeah, that!” 

“A strong frog,” Dad notes, nodding. “The princess’ll be sure to miss him if he’s kept from his post too long. Make sure you send them back before we leave.”

Dad tells him that every time, as if Sebastian would ever forget. He won’t. He _always_ makes sure the valley’s Frog Kingdom gets all their subjects back, because he doesn’t want the princess to be lonely without her friends. 

(The princess: bright purple and yellow, the largest frog in all the land, who only comes out at night and sings to the moon where her boyfriend lives. Because of the long-distance, she gets lonesome easily, but has many friends who trust her with their well-being. So the story goes; Sebastian’s not certain of all the details, but Dad’s always there to fill in the missing gaps.)

(He was always there.)

His hands sink into the pond scum, boots squelching against the mud in victory as he adds another to his growing collection. Today must be a lucky day, because his haul is astronomical. He looks up, 

“Dad, I - ” 

and his father isn’t there.

(He wasn’t.)

The scene _shifts_ then, a blend of like-minded colors meshing into a hodge-podge of confusion soup. Instead of a frog, his hand is wrapped around his bedroom door’s knob mid-turn. It’s dark, the sun long since set. A low, familiar whistle emanates from beyond his window, the telltale sign of an incoming train. Frogs forgotten, he tumbles out of his bedroom in his jammies, his little feet tip-toeing toward the front door. If he’s fast, he can catch it and see what presents it’ll leave behind.

He freezes when he realizes the kitchen light is on. There’s no sound coming from the kitchen, though. He tilts his head and, steeling his resolve, he peeks from around the hallway corner. 

Dad sits at the kitchen table. His forefinger raps against it like a dog’s anxious tail during a thunderstorm, _bap bap bap bap bap._ An opened orange bottle sits next to a half-full glass, little white dots sprawling across the tablecloth. His leg jitters, and his eyes have a newfound reddish tint to them, as if he’s been crying. But his face isn’t puffy. Sebastian’s face gets puffy when he cries, full of red blotches and gross snot. Dad doesn’t look like _that,_ really, but something _is_ different.

The train whistles low again in warning, but Sebastian ignores it as he toddles toward the kitchen table.

“Dad?”

Dad stirs, slowly, quietly, like an ancient robot in those Saturday cartoons awakening from its eternal slumber. His head lifts, lips drawn into a tight line, and its then his hands begin to shake. The tremors spread to his arms.

“Sebby,” he says. “Papi’s sorry.”

Sorry? Sebastian blinks, uncomprehending. “S’okay,” he says, but he’s not really sure what he’s forgiving him for. Dad smiles, pained, and ruffles the tangled bird’s nest passing as hair atop Sebastian’s head.

“Papi’s really, really sorry,” he says, lower this time. He picks Sebastian up into a hug for all too long and all too warm. Sebastian resists the urge to squirm out of it, finding the heat unbearable. The shakes rock through Dad’s chest, heaving now. “Papi’s tired,” he says, then after a long, insufferable handful of minutes: “But Papi’s got to, ah, meet the mermaids.”

Mermaids? Sebastian perks up - that’s better than any silly old train. “Can I come with you? I wanna see mermaids, too.”

“I’d love to, buddy. But,” he shakes his head, pecking a kiss to Sebastian’s forehead, “maybe next time. Papi promises. This time it’s hush-hush, all boring business stuff. You know how it is, no?” 

It’s a promise he never intended to keep (but since when does Dad lie? Always and forever. To Mom. To Sebastian. To everyone). But Sebastian doesn’t know that then. He also doesn’t know it’s the last hug he’ll ever get. Dad sets him down, his large hand scorching against Sebastian’s cheek, before sighing and looking at the white confetti on the table. He scoops it all off the tablecloth before sticking them into his pocket. 

“Go back to bed,” he says. “It’s late.”

He yawns and rubs at his eyes. “Is it gonna rain tomorrow?”

Dad purses his lips in thought, brow furrowing. “I think the fairies need a break, so probably not. But it will someday soon.”

“I hope it rains tomorrow,” he says, words slurring together. “I wanna find more frogs with you, Dad.”

It is then the front door swings open, a swelling sea of waves crashing through the house and soaking Mummy’s favorite welcome mat. Sebastian shrieks, clinging to Dad’s leg. But the water is stronger than his grip, tearing them apart, and someone - _multiple_ someones - sings horrifically beautiful songs. Sebastian sputters on salt, little arms flailing - “Dad!” - while his Dad strides toward the source of the sound. A green creature with a human torso and a fish’s tail beckons him, takes him by the hand. Dad closes his eyes - “Dad, no, don’t go!” - and shares a secretive smile with her before another wave - “ _Dad!”_ \- consumes them both. Sebastian has no hope of catching him, his little arms and legs fighting the force of an angry ocean, threatening to pull him down, down, down into the murkiest depths, a gaggle of yellow eyes peering up at him from below - “Mummy! Mum!” - with no one to save him now. Dad’s gone. He’s gone, the house is gone, all that remains is a sunless sea and a black horizon vacated of stars, no moon for the frog princess to croak to, and Sebastian falls, all of him _falls,_ his heart hammering hard against a contracting ribcage, _ra ta ta ta, ra ta ta ta, r a t a t a_ \- )

The alarm clock bleated like a flock of sheep strewn across the road without a care in the world about blocking everyone’s commute. Sebastian groaned, eyes blinking blearily at the unwelcomed morning. He swatted at the alarm and silenced it first try; a new record, if he were awake enough to keep track of such things. Upstairs, he heard Demetrius’s heavy footsteps scuff against the kitchen floor, ever the early bird. Coffee’s sweet serenade called out to him to join the rest of the waking world. His stomach gurgled, wanting breakfast. Reluctant, he peeled himself out from the blankets and rose from his comforter cocoon.

The day hadn’t even started yet, and he was already exhausted. He groaned and ran a hand through his hair, frowning at the faint light from the kitchen pooling through the crack of the basement door. That dream happened every once in awhile as a reminder. As a stern, unforgettable lesson, as a means to live by:

_Don’t rely on anybody’s word. Or anyone, for that matter. You can only trust yourself._

He knew that already. It’s embedded in every synapse in his being, every cell pumping blood through his veins. He breathed it in as truth and breathed it out as fact. You only had yourself in this world, because the world didn’t care about you.

He grabbed the cigarettes sitting on his dresser and checked his phone, switching through apps to check the weather. _Any rain today?_

_Nah, all sunny. Go figure._

***

“It’s not too late to turn back. We can totally just ditch.”

“You say that every year, Seb.” Abigail dragged her feet as they made their way through the forest at ungodly o’clock in the morning. “And every year, we’ve got to remind you that if we did that we’d all be in a world of trouble from our respective family members. Doesn’t matter if we’re kids or adults, it’ll always be the same. Hey,” she snapped her fingers in front of his face, “pay attention. You’ve almost tripped six times now.”

“With any luck, I’ll impale my eyeballs on the roots and have to visit Harvey instead of going to this stupid thing.” He rubbed at his face, willing for the coffee Demetrius prepared for him to kick in. While he didn’t particularly like his step-dad, the guy had a knack for brewing powerful cups o’ joe. And he wasn’t about to turn down free bean juice. “Are we there yet?”

“Nope,” said Sam.

“Nuh-uh,” said Abigail.

“How about now?”

“Lemme see.” Sam stopped and surveyed their surroundings, scrutinizing every blooming flower and budding tree. He stroked his imaginary beard in contemplation. “Why, by the crow flies, I daresay reckon we very well may be getting closer, young chum, unless we continue our dilly-dally shilly-shallying with such asinine inquiries.”

“You _really_ need to stop binging those old-timey TV shows and watch the adaptation for ‘Cave Saga X.’ Seb and I just marathoned the first season the other day, it’s _so_ good.”

Sebastian nodded when Sam glanced at him. There were some problems he had with the adaptation, like how they turned Fern into an absolute emotionless husk while her book version, while off-putting, sported some endearing wit here and there. And that cliffhanger was unnecessarily frustrating bait for those anti-readers to get excited for the second season. All things considered, compared to other similar sci-fi adaptations, Cave Saga X was still top-tier. _Especially_ when pitted against the likes of _Dawnfall,_ which - well, he didn’t even want to spare any brain cells pondering _that_ unmitigated disaster. Rotten Potatoes had a rating of 10% for audience scores, if that was any indication.

“I tried reading it, but man, it’s _so_ long,” Sam griped. He yawned and stretched his arms overhead, several joints popping. “Like, I have a life, y’know? Between work, band, and skateboarding, like, trying to read eight hundred pages is totally not my forte. I dunno how you two do it.”

“Effort,” Abigail answered at the same time as Sebastian muttered, “Boredom.”

Sam hummed and kicked a rock aside. “How long’re the episodes?”

“Well, it’s a special, so two hours each, clocking in at six episodes, so that’s a whopping twelve hours total or so. We could totally get together some weekend and watch it again with you.” Abigail’s eyes twinkled. “I could watch the guy they casted for Gunther all day, every day. He’s _so_ good at acting.”

“Wow, that’s gotta be the least sexy name I’ve ever heard.” Sam shook his head. “Poor guy.”

“It’s fine, he’s so attractive that the ugly name isn’t even relevant.”

“Guess I’ll take your word for it. What do you think, Seb?” Sam grinned and wrapped an arm around Sebastian’s shoulders. “Is Abby right? This Gunther guy even more attractive than _moi?”_

“Doesn’t take much,” Sebastian drawled, and Sam balked, hand clutching at his chest from an invisible wound. He staggered a few peds away, hand slapping against the base of a tree, expression pained. 

“Woe is I!” he cried, placing the back of his hand against his forehead. “My friends say I’m an unattractive wart who’ll never get laid! What ever am I to do? Is it the immaculate hair? My big oafish eyes?”

“Yeesh, yeah, you really need to lay off the historical dramas there.” Abigail laughed and patted him on the back, a sting of jealousy pricking at Sebastian’s gut. “C’mon, ‘big oaf,’ you’re not _that_ bad. But we’ve gotta get a move on or else we’re gonna get an earful from the mayor for being late. We don’t want to make this more of a pain than it already is, yeah?”

Instead of hosting the flower dance in the center of the forest, where most of the flowers grew, Pelican Town set aside a squarish clearing across a makeshift bridge for the event. (The bridge always was dismantled after the festivities; for what purposes, Sebastian didn’t know nor care. What was there to preserve over there, anyways? The remains of their dignity cast aside for wearing such tacky outfits?) Little stalls lined the outskirts with different foods and weird items available for purchase. Some early-bird residents already yakked it up beside the punchbowl. Same shit, different year. 

Except. 

Sebastian’s gaze wandered to - well, zoomed in on really, because how could anyone miss Sunny? Anyways, there stood Sunny, back unnaturally straight as he clutched a red plastic cup appearing so tiny in his hands. He stood along the edge of the event, lips drawn into a tight line, pupils darting back and forth from person to person. Sam whistled and jerked his head towards the farmer.

“He looks more nervous than the first time you tried asking Abby out on a date back in middle school,” he whispered. Sebastian’s cheeks burned and he gave Sam a shushing nudge with his elbow. Nobody needed to hear that, especially Abigail who stood all of _three feet away,_ for Yoba’s sake. 

But Sam was right. The guy looked ready to run at any second. _Why did you even come if you’re scared shitless?_

Well, not his problem. Everyone was in it for themselves today, trying to survive the second-hand embarrassment the event specialized in. They’d have to get changed into those annoying clothes soon, too. Ugh. He sighed and meandered away from his friends toward the food table, because he might as well eat something before dying a slow, miserable, toe-tapping death.

Some blue-haired girl - crap, what was her name again? Elizabeth? She worked at Gus’s so he should know this, uh, wait, _Emily,_ how’d he mess that up every time? - smiled at him from behind the table after setting down a plate full of toasted bagels smeared with what he assumed to be cream cheese. It smelled different from the usual cream cheese they got at the grocery store, though. He quirked an eyebrow when he picked one up, sniffing it. Huh.

“It’s horseradish jam,” she explained, chipper as always despite the time of day. “At least, _I_ call it jam, but everyone else just calls it ‘horseradish cream cheese,’ but it doesn’t have the same viscosity as regular plain ol’ cream cheese. Just for the record.” She nodded a few times, as if that emphasized her point with ample evidence. “It’s my special recipe! Er, at least it could be, if it tastes good.”

Talk about convincing. Sebastian hesitated, wondering if it would just taste like slop, before risking to take a bite. If it kills him, so be it; one less dance he needed to do. He chewed the bagel (an everything bagel, which was the best flavor and no one could tell him otherwise) before lifting his eyebrows in surprise.

“S’good,” he mumbled. Emily lit up. _Oh, cute._

“Yeah? You think so? Haley hated it, so I didn’t know if bringing this was a mistake or not, but I’m so glad you liked it! Hey,” she leaned over the table, lowering her voice into a conspiratorial whisper, “do you mind bringing one over to Sunny for me? He got me some stuff I needed the other day and I paid him and all, buuuuut I think he should have one, too. Thanks a million!”

Sebastian frowned. “Why not do it yourself?”

“I’m still helping set up the tables, and it’d look bad if I just, you know, wandered away. Please?” She clapped her hands together into a begging position and lowered her head. “Pretty please? Pretty please with cherries and raspberries on top?”

He felt his resistance waning to the overly adorable puppy-dog eyes she batted at him. With a sigh, he grabbed a napkin and a second half of a bagel before wandering away from the table. She shouted another _thank you!_ that he ignored. _Why’s this town filled to the brim with weirdos?_

Sunny’s eyes widened when Sebastian approached him, the cup in his hands crinkling. For someone who obliterated quite possibly half the bizarre fauna within the mines, he sure lacked a backbone when it came to socializing it seemed. Sebastian pushed the bagel into Sunny’s hands, who stared at the gift with blank confusion.

“From Emily,” he said, jabbing a thumb at the pixie-passing-as-human across the way. “It’s apparently ‘horseradish jam.’ It’s,” he shrugged, “alright, I guess. Can’t dance on an empty stomach, so. Here.”

Sunny nodded, stare not leaving the inconspicuous reddish-white bits intermingled with the rest of the jam. He poked at it, lips pursed, before taking a bite. Sebastian watched a flurry of expressions cross his face: curiosity, indecision, immense dislike, a forced smile, and a barely visible wince. He gave Emily a thumb’s up across the way, which prompted her to wave in joy at his, ah, “approval.” 

“That bad?”

Sunny’s smile waned as he took another bite. What a trooper.

“You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to. I can give it to Sam. He’ll eat almost anything.” 

Sunny shook his head while poking at the horseradish chunks. He licked his lips and, in a move comparable to a hippo yawning, pushed the rest of the bagel into his mouth in one large chomp. Sebastian watched in both fascination and horror as Sunny’s brown skin took on a hint of green, then _paled,_ then returned to some semblance of normalcy after he swallowed. He then chugged the rest of his drink to chase the taste away. Wow.

“Not a fan of horseradish, huh.”

Sunny nodded meekly, pressing the back of his hand to his lips. But he still ate it, just to make Emily happy. Ideas clunked in his rousing brain, churning out, _oh, maybe he has a crush on her and wanted to make her happy._ That made sense. She was cute in a way, although a bit too happy-go-lucky for Sebastian’s taste. Maybe he was planning on asking her to the dance? 

_But how will he?_ He noted the lack of pencil and paper to communicate with, and it’s not like those suits they’ll have to change into have cellphone-sized pockets. Plus, judging by the anxious sweat budding on his forehead, the guy didn’t quite have the resolve to muster enough courage for something so daunting. In a sense, Sebastian understood. He’s been there before. Still was there. He shot a glance at Abigail, who was in the middle of giving Sam another noogie. _Must’ve pissed her off again._ He sighed. 

“Since you practiced, I’m guessing you still want to do it, right?” He scratched the back of his neck. “Dunno why you’d want to do that to yourself, but since I almost killed you with her food delivery, I guess I can make it up to you by asking the person you wanna dance with for you. Or get Abby to do it. She’s much better at this than me, so we can ask her.” He shrugged. “Whichever.” 

The shyness doubling on Sunny’s face implied Sebastian threw the dart and hit the bull’s eye with that one. Yeah, he definitely had someone in mind already. Hopefully it was someone who still didn’t have a partner yet. “Alright,” he said. “C’mon.”

Abigail released Sam when they approached, gaze shifting from Sebastian to Sunny and back again. “Hey,” she said, giving a polite smile. “I see you recruited another member in our misery club here. How’s the farm, Sunny? Things growing alright?”

Sunny nodded, and wiggled his dirt-encrusted fingers. Did he not have time to wash them off before coming over? Mom would’ve strangled Sebastian for looking so sloppy if he did that. Oh well. He gestured toward Sunny with his head. “He’s actually looking to ask someone to be his partner, but. Y’know. I offered, but I figured you’d be better at the whole ‘talking to people’ thing.”

“Please, my charisma stats are nowhere near as high as dear old _Sam’s_ here, isn’t that right.” She gave Sam a flat stare, who cowered under it. “Why, he thought it was a compliment comparing my hair to _blackberry paste,_ even though he _knows_ I hate blackberries.”

Sebastian blinked. “But. But don’t you like Mom’s blackberry cobbler?”

“Those are two entirely different beasts,” Abigail stated matter-of-factly. She put her hands on her hips and stuck out her tongue before letting out a small laugh. “Sam, don’t look like such a kicked kitten, I’m not _that_ mad. Relax.”

“I can’t tell if you’re telling the truth or not.” Still, Sam straightened himself out slicked his fingers through his hair. “Craaaap, I have to ask someone to dance, too. I completely forgot about that part. Seb, can you let me borrow Abby this year?”

“Not a chance.”

“Harsh.”

“ _Anyways._ ” Abigail clapped to recenter their attention. She smiled at Sunny, who did his best shrinking violet impression. “You wanna ask someone to the dance, right? It’s a little last-minute, but I’m sure we could work something out. Is there anyone particular, or will anyone do?”

Sunny’s mouth opened, then closed, suddenly finding the dirt stupidly interesting. Sebastian resisted the urge to snort. He tapped Sam on the shoulder - “Yeah? Uh, hey, where are we going?” - and pulled him along to give them privacy. If he were about to blurt out his crush, he wouldn’t want it broadcasted to the whole rumor mill disguised as a town. But man, didn’t the guy just move in a little while ago? Talk about “love at first sight.” Sebastian didn’t believe in such things, but good for him, he supposed.

“Hundred Gs that it’s Emily,” Sebastian said.

“What? For his dance partner? You think so?” Sam itched his cheek and paused in front of the dance outfits hanging neatly pressed on a rack. Same old ugly robin’s egg blue. Couldn’t they at least make the blue a tad darker? “I dunno, man. I’ll make it two hundred for that Leah chick. She’s pretty.”

“Deal.” 

“I dunno why I make bets with you,” Sam sighed, shaking his head. “You always win them. It’s like you’ve got super intuition skills. Or you’re cheating.”

“I only cheat in games that are impossible to win. Ever tried _Ape Ball 64?_ Those levels are made from nightmares belonging to game designers. It’s like a textbook on how to infuriate your player base in less than thirty seconds.” He pulled down one of the suits with a handmade tag reading his name tied to coat hanger. Once he got this over with, he wouldn’t have to think about it for another 364 days. 

And by then, he’ll have left Pelican Town for good. If he had enough savings.

“That’s weird.”

Sebastian made a sound to indicate he was paying attention while finangling with the stupid buttons on the dress shirt. Sam whispered something under his breath, then pulled out his own suit. 

“Yeah, no, that’s totally weird. Everyone else’s stuff is here, but,” Sam frowned, “I don’t see no tag for Sunny’s anywhere. Did the mayor forget? He’s the one who invites everyone, so that seems a little funky, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe he already got his. He was here before us.”

“Oh, true.”

Otherwise, Sunny would stick out like a sore thumb during the dance, and that would attract a lot of unwanted attention. The mayor couldn’t forget something like that, right? Well. Sebastian frowned as he stepped into one of the changing stalls, peeling off his favorite hoody and replacing it for an outfit that belonged to a rich man he would never be. It smelled of moth balls. He wrinkled his nose and blanched while resuming his struggle with the accursed buttons. 

“Lookin’ good,” Sam said, giving Sebastian a double finger-gun. “Y’know, with a little more effort, I’m sure you could make Abigail turn her head in your direction instead of that Gunther guy.” 

“Gunther’s ripped.”

“Oh. Well, load up on them protein bars then! I’m sure Alex can give you pointers on gaining muscles.”

“Sure. I’ll get on that when hell freezes over.” He rolled his eyes and shuffled back over to Abigail and Sunny, both of whom stared at him strangely. He picked at the dress shirt’s ruffles, self-conscious. 

“Look at it this way,” Abigail said, patting Sebastian on the small of his back. It tingled and sparked with warmth. “At least it’s not bright screaming pink? _That_ would totally clash with your aesthetic.”

“Please stab me to death with a fork. It’ll be less painful.”

“Come on, Seb. It’s really not that bad. It’s _dashing.”_ She smiled, and Sebastian’s stomach performed somersaults over itself. After knowing her for so long, he would’ve thought it would no longer have such an effect on him. But it bedazzled him like magic, her words, her - her everything. He hoped his face wasn’t as hot as it felt. “Too bad I won’t get to see it in action this year, though.”

What?

“Huh?”

“Oh, see.” Abigail twirled a lock of hair around her pinky, peering up at the sky. “While you and Sam were changing, me and Sunny started walking around and I did an _oopsie_ and fell flat on my ass. Totally rolled my ankle and it hurts like a bitch. Sunny tried to catch me, but, oh well.”

Sunny began sweating bullets, mouth parting in a mixture of confusion and worry. Something sounded _fishy_ about this, and Sebastian’s eyes narrowed to look for any traces of a lie in her voice. 

“You can ask Shane,” she added, passing her Charisma check with a nat-20. “He saw.”

Dammit. 

“But that’s _super_ convenient,” she continued, “because now we don’t have to worry about uneven numbers.” She nudged Sunny with her elbow, giving him a devilish grin. “Because good ol’ reliable Sunny here will take my place this year.”

Sunny and Sebastian blinked.

“What.”

“No problems here, right? Sure, Sunny’s a _bit_ taller than you,” _understatement of the century,_ “but it’ll work out.”

“He’s a _guy,_ ” Sebastian said, shaking his head. “Two guys can’t dance with each other. That’s just - _ack!_ ”

Abigail’s arm hooked around his neck, dragging him away from Sunny and towards the edge of the field. His gargled protests did little to deter her strength as she pulled him toward the outskirts. She released him at a satisfactory distance, then grabbed him by the shoulders. Her smile, too outstretched for his liking, took on a sharpened twist.

“Sebby,” she said, “guys can dance with each other just fine.”

“I - yeah, I know that. It’s just,” he averted her pressing stare, “weird - well, not _weird,_ but I’ve only ever danced with you. And I’m used to it that way. And you make this whole event less awful because of it. You know? Why are you lying about your ankle, anyways, since you can walk just fine?” _Do you hate dancing with me that much?_

Her face crumpled into a caught look. She tapped his shoulders in thought. “I don’t really know how to say this,” she said, setting alarm bells off in his head - _oh, Yoba, she hates me, what did I do?_ \- “but let’s just say it’s a favor?” 

“A,” he repeated, swallowing hard, “favor?”

“Yeah. You know, when you owe someone something, and then an opportunity presents itself for you to repay it? Something like that. Long story short, Sunny told me who he wanted to dance with, more or less, and I decided to repay him in my own way, so.” She quirked an eyebrow. _What is he, everyone’s handyman? How many favors do people owe him?_ “So here we are. You follow me?”

No? Sebastian squinted, his attempts to parse her statements rolling a two. One would think his high INT would save him from such a dreadful throw, but not even the higher powers that be could help him now. On the plus side, it might be the case she didn’t hate him, after all. 

“Uh,” he said, glancing back at Sunny who picked anxiously at the dirt in his nails in the distance, “was his wanted partner taken?”

“Not anymore.” 

“Then when not ask _her_ instead of this weird charade of him dancing with me?”

She gave him a flat look. “Sebastian,” she said, and ho boy, her using his full name never spelled a good time, “I think he wants to dance with _you.”_

Someone once said something like, _the truth will set you free._ How or why was never explained properly, and Sebastian could provide at least one hundred examples of how it would actually backfire. Abigail uttered this truth so fast that he almost didn’t catch it between the laughter shared between the mayor and the livestock lady. When it sank in - when he got her implications - he almost jerked back in surprise.

“What? _Why?_ ”

“Do you think I know? He just pointed at you when you walked away. Or me. It wasn’t really clear. I think it was you, though.”

“We’re not even friends?” Sure, they had a conversation once or twice, but that was about it. Then again, from what he witnessed between smoke breaks, the other residents often engaged in simple awkward pleasantries whenever talking at Sunny. Like they didn’t know how to navigate the conversation or something, like it was difficult. People were simple enough, so it confused him where the problem was.

So maybe - just maybe - the closest person Sunny had to interact with was _Sebastian._

That was just… _sad,_ really. Sebastian’s not one for socializing to begin with. He frowned at the thought.

“I’m just playing the messenger here.” She held up her hands and shook her head. “If you really don’t want to, I’ll be his partner and you can sit out this year. Which would be a shame, ‘cause you already put all the effort into getting changed.” She grinned and nudged him. “I don’t mind switching it up on occasion.”

It was a tempting offer, albeit with the sacrifice of Abigail dancing with another guy, and knowing that it was probably, most likely, definitely actually _Abigail_ he wanted to dance with, _not_ Sebastian. He weighed his options. Sunny practiced, meaning he gave a damn about participating, while Sebastian would rather eat thumbtacks.

“You dance with him,” he said at last, words coming out from behind grinding teeth. “It’s cool.”

Abigail pursed her lips in mild disbelief, but nodded anyhow. “Alright, sounds good. I’ll catch you next year then, Mr. Stompy Feet.”

“That was literally _twice!”_ he complained while she walked back toward Sunny, tittering. Seriously, was she going to hold that against him forever? It’s not like he stepped on her toes on purpose or anything. In fact, he tried extra hard last year to avoid repeating history. He huffed and folded his arms across his chest, watching the conversation unfold between Abigail and Sunny.

Sunny glanced up at Sebastian, their eyes meeting for a fleeting moment - Sebastian resisted the urge to look away - before returning to Abigail, a peculiar look of understanding on his face. Well, okay. At least he didn’t mind Sebastian rejecting his (possible) offer (or misunderstanding), because really, it would just - he didn’t want to stand out as-is, and in this sheltered town, who knew what anyone really thought about two guys (who weren’t friends, let alone, uh, the other option) dancing together.

But he didn’t care what they thought. Not really. It was complicated. He scowled at his roundabout thought circles. He squeezed his own bicep, attention turning to the matted grass beneath his feet. Just this year. Just one year without his annual dance with Abigail, no big deal. She said she’d do it with him next year. He’d live just fine. Easy peasy. 

As he stood on the sidelines while the music played, watching the pair dance in with an uncomfortably synchronized grace he could never hope to achieve, he almost believed his own half-hearted assertions.

 _It’s not Emily at all, is it?_ he thought, seeing a bright smile flash across both their faces at the dance’s conclusion. Sunny bowed several times in thanks (huh, he never did get a proper dress shirt and pants), Abigail laughed, and they exchanged a flustered, uncoordinated handshake. Someone like that - someone so peculiar yet nice - Sebastian didn’t stand a chance against in the competition for one’s affections. He bit his bottom lip, failing to ignore the next undesirable truth of the day:

_He likes Abby._

_Well, on the bright side,_ he clapped along with the rest of the crowd, giving a weak wave back at his friends (and possible new rival), _at least I don’t owe Sam money._


	4. nature's crescendo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello hello! thank u one and all for ur continued support, be it in reading, kudos, or comments (or all three, golly goodness me)! y’all are very kind to me, and I appreciate ur feedback! we're a week early this week due to impending heightened work load coming up next week; apologies for the inconsistencies and I thank y'all for ur understanding. and so! without further ado, here be ch. 4! pls enjoy, and lemme know what u think!

Living in a basement boasted miniscule perks compared to an actual bedroom. It lacked windows, smelled damp on humid days, struggled with the occasional wasp nest infestation, and became freezing in the wintertime with a permanent space heater flicked onto full blast under his computer desk. However, on days like today? He switched Internet tabs and did a quick search of the weather:

_Mostly sunny, highs in the “oh Yoba my skin’s melting,” W-NW winds at 5 MPH._

Yeah. He pursed his lips, smug at the thought of everyone else complaining and fanning themselves while trying to relax in their stuffy bedrooms, while his typically undesirable abode stood proud for being a cooled domain. In this season, he reigned supreme as King Comfort - except whenever he needed to brave the baking elements for his cigarette breaks. But other than that? He leaned back in his chair, fingers laced together behind his head. He could get used to this.

(In reality, he had gotten used to it for however many years now, but still. Little things.)

The white cursor flashed in and out of existence within the confines of its textbox on his computer, awaiting his next inputs. He’d been at it for a handful of hours now, toiling away through the muck and grime of a barren, drab website’s design. Whoever these folks commissioned first deserved to have their title of “programmer” stripped away from them. Who constructed code without using comments to describe their indecipherable shorthand variables? Or, for that matter, attached a gajillion inputs to one singular function? No wonder the website struggled to maintain composure whenever someone decided to visit it. He sighed while squinting at the next block needing to be fixed. Someday soon, he really, _really_ needed to up his rates if his competition charged an arm and a leg for _this_ crap.

Then again, most of his competent competition - those who hailed from Zuzu City with a thousand opportunities splayed out before their classy feet - would steal his clients if he upped his prices by even a measly hundred Gs. People from there carried on their shoulders a reputation he could never scrounge up, simply by virtue of living somewhere dense in population. _Connections._ All of Sebastian’s connections in such a podunk tiny town were a bunch of undereducated, underfunded, and paycheck-to-paycheck type of people. This place didn’t even have a store dedicated to electronics. His first of many computer parts came from a long bus ride out of town.

All the more reason to leave it. He could find great paying jobs in the city - hell, he could daresay guess his work would be respected, what with being self-taught and somehow managing to keep up with the brilliance of other coding maniacs that posted incredible scripts onto forum boards. A skill like that had to mean _something,_ right?

Well, not to anyone he knew. Not right now, at any rate. Maru’s technological skills, being tangible, were praised and heralded as genius-level works. And yeah, Sebastian could, deep down and with great reluctance, admit that her projects required a keen intellect and incredible understandings of engineering. But his projects were just as good, even if it lingered in the background executing codes. Who else in town could turn this garbage into a clean, functional, and sleek website? 

The likes of Demetrius gave no damns. Of course. And Mom lacked any comprehension regarding computers. She once tried installing credit card readers into her shop to drum up more business, but found it to be such a hassle that she now had a “G Only” policy. Maru - well, they hardly spoke. One time she expressed interest in what he did, but he brushed it off as her pitying him (or to make herself feel better/prouder of her own career choices). 

His leg started jiggling as one palm pressed into his forehead. He slouched over the keyboard, glaring at the punctuation problems causing the program to sport numerous syntax errors in testing. No wonder the links to certain pages refused to open.

In the corner of his screen, a little pop-up window _dinged_ for his attention. He spared it a glance, frown deepening when he realized it wasn’t work-related. Another message from Sam. How many times did Sebastian have to tell him to _not_ IM him during his work hours? 

“Hey Sebastian,” he grumbled aloud, “you free this afternoon, I want to have a jam session, I got a crazy idea and we’ve gotta blah blah blah. Blah, blah _blah_ blah, blah blah blah. C’mon, we just saw each other _yesterday._ ” He sighed, minimizing the window. “And you said the exact same thing, but we got literally _nothing_ done.” 

Another notification appeared, reading simply: _“C u @ 3!”_

Oh, so now he was making assumptions that Sebastian wasn’t actually working but messing around on the Internet? He snorted and ignored the message. If anyone bothered to look at his Excel sheet, they’d see how many deadlines he had to devote to. Taking time off during one of the busiest seasons (aside from New Year’s) would tumble his timetables into an inescapable crunch. He liked sleeping in when he could, thank you very much.

His knee banged off his table from jittering too much, the sudden pain jolting him out of his aggravation. He winced and rubbed at the forming bruise, and then grabbed his cigarette pack. Clearly he needed a small break, or else he wasn’t going to finish anything else for the rest of the day. 

He rose from his seat, and - 

_“Gah!”_

\- promptly stumbled backward, toppling into his chair and pushing it hard into the corner. He landed hard on his ass, cigarettes dropping beside him, and watched his sudden visitor’s arms flail in an equal surprise at his outburst. Sebastian let out a slow, shuddering exhale, repeating an internal mantra of _don’t get snappy, don’t get snappy_ while standing back up. His visitor picked up the cigarettes and offered them meekly. It was hard to stay irritated when he looked so damn apologetic.

“Next time,” Sebastian said, snatching the pack back, “say something, won’t y - ? Uh.” 

Sunny rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. 

“That’s - okay, well, at least knock on my desk or something instead of just standing there waiting ‘til I notice you.” Sebastian clicked his tongue at his own error. He’d known the guy for how many months now, and he still said that? “When I get in the ‘zone,’ I don’t really notice my surroundings, and I don’t want a repeat of breaking my ass into two pieces.”

Sunny nodded, brow knitting together as he looked away. He clenched a fist and, in several circular motions, rotated it close to his chest. _Sorry._ Sebastian shook his head and waved his hand dismissively.

“It’s cool, don’t worry too much about it. We have a system in place for next time you decide to drop by uninvited.” 

The wince that crossed Sunny’s face was subtle, but given how trained Sebastian was at discerning Sunny’s emotions to gleen understanding, he still caught it. Too harsh? He sighed and stuffed his hands into his sweatshirt’s pocket. 

“No, really, it’s fine. Mom probably said it was okay for you to come down, didn’t she? She does that all the time. I just forgot to lock my bedroom door for privacy, so it’s kind of on me, too.” He gave a half-hearted shrug, hoping the damage control was sufficient to stave off any hard feelings. Sunny wasn’t half-bad compared to some of the other people in Pelican Town; at least he waited until Sebastian reached a breaking time before disturbing him. Unlike _some_ people. 

_Looking at you, Abby._

He jerked his head toward the bedroom door. “I’m actually gonna take a break now. So.”

Luckily for him, Sunny picked up quick on hints. He nodded a few times before turning and shuffling out of the basement. The stairs squeaked beneath his weight, prompting Sebastian to wonder how the hell he never heard him coming in the first place. Sunny displayed whatever the opposite skill of stealth was. Alarm, maybe? Must’ve made it a real pain to sneak into the kitchen in the middle of the night to steal cookies from the jar.

_Huh. I never asked, but I wonder what his family’s like._ Sebastian followed Sunny upstairs. _Not that it’s my business._

Summer sunlight streamed through the hallway window and beat upon the back of his neck when he emerged from the basement. He squinted at the harsh lighting and rubbed his eyes. Sunny waited by the kitchen entrance, picking at his nails. His jean overalls, slathered in dirt and other crap, looked wet from the calves down. 

“Fall into a puddle or something on your way here?”

He lifted his head at Sebastian’s inquiry, then shook it. He pointed toward the front entrance, then, after giving Mom a polite wave, stepped outside. Sebastian glanced at Mom on his way out.

“We’re having casserole for dinner tonight,” she said. “Oh, and Abigail said she might stop by a little later tonight.”

“Did you tell her I’m busy working?”

“I did, but,” she shrugged, “she said she’d probably stop by anyways.”

Go figure. Sebastian rolled his eyes and, after giving Mom a quick two-fingered wave, left the house out into the sun’s unforgiving wrath. He groaned, lifting up an arm to shield his tired eyes, before spotting Sunny picking up his cooler and fishing rod. 

“So you went fishing,” he said.

Sunny nodded, patting the bulging sack of something squishy strapped to his belt. Bait, maybe? Sebastian never took interest in the art of fishing, even with all the different bodies of water within the valley. It seemed tedious and for little reward for anyone’s efforts. 

“Catch anything good?”

With a shake of his head, Sunny confirmed all of Sebastian’s preconceived notions for the sport. He snorted and began wandering toward the lakeside to have his (earlier than usual) afternoon pick-me-up. The cooler rattled by Sunny’s side, the sound remaining close and steady despite the number of steps Sebastian strode away from his house. He frowned and glanced over his shoulder.

“Uh,” he said, “why’re you following me?”

Sunny stopped mid-step, shoulders lifting. He blinked a few times, appearing suddenly uncertain, and his grip around the rod balanced on his shoulder tightened. Carrying all that stuff made it difficult to use anything to express himself, but he managed somehow by rattling his rod, the hook swaying to and fro. Sebastian wanted to slap himself upside the head.

“ _Right._ Fishing. That makes sense. The lake’s kind of my hideout space since it’s so out of the way, but I guess it might have some weird fish in it worth your time.” Maybe he needed to find a new spot to clear his head at. Not that Sunny annoyed him or anything, but some places were enjoyed best alone. He resumed walking, and when Sunny didn’t, he paused and frowned. “You coming or what?”

Sunny stared at him, confusion riddled all across his face, before trudging along to catch up. He still kept a reasonable distance, even though his long legs could easily cross the distance between them in three strides or less. 

True to its title, the secret hideout sported no other people taking up precious space along the shoreline. Sebastian dug his lighter from his pant’s pocket and flicked it on a few times, the flame belatedly catching the tip of his cigarette. He inhaled slowly, feeling the smoke burn his lungs, and stared out over the glittering water. Even with all the shade offered by the trees, the unbearable heat clung to skin, which itched to chuck the sweatshirt aside to breathe.

A _wsssh_ came from his left. The fishing line sailed far across the lake, plopping into the calm waves. Sebastian eyed Sunny, noting the ramrod-straight back and his tightly-drawn lips. And their distance - he set up camp a good ten, fifteen feet away from Sebastian, as if being any closer would cross an invisible boundary somehow. Was he always so skittish? For someone whose presence could hardly be muted, he sure tried his damnedest, didn’t he?

Sebastian coughed.

“I’m not mad at you about earlier,” he said, voice just loud enough over the crying cicadas. Sunny stiffened again before turning toward Sebastian. “I’m just not good at the whole interacting thing. I like my space, that’s all. It’s nothing to do with you. Trust me, compared to the others, you’re actually, like, respectful. Kind of.”

Sunny shifted his weight from one foot to the other, free hand fiddling with the rim of his hay straw hat. He bit his bottom lip, as if digesting Sebastian’s words, before patting at his overalls to find something. He blinked, patted a few more times, then let out a heavy sigh, dejected. He wedged the rod between his knees before pretending to hold a phone to his hear, then making an “X” with his arms.

“You forgot your phone?”

Sunny nodded.

“And you wanted to tell me something,” Sebastian concluded. He flicked the end of his cigarette, weighed his options, and then crossed the distance between them, fishing out his own phone. “Here. Use this. Just don’t throw it into the lake or whatever, I still haven’t paid it off yet for an upgrade.”

Sunny hesitated before taking the offered phone with the Memo app already opened for convenience’s sake. His comically large thumbs struggled with the smaller screen, constantly tapping the backspace button to correct errors. Sebastian resumed staring out at the lake, watching the colorful float dance. No fish wanted Sunny’s bait yet.

He felt a tap on his shoulder, and he cocked his head in Sunny’s direction:

_WHEN’S THE BEST TIME TO VISIT SO I DON’T BUG YOU ON ACCIDENT AGAIN?_

The question almost left Sebastian dumbstruck. He half-expected a rambling apology or some excuse about how his intrusion didn’t matter because it’s just “computer stuff.” His lips parted, surprised, before looking up at Sunny.

“Uh, I guess, well, I work most days,” he explained, “but I usually take a break after dinnertime and come here. Or somewhere else. That’s pretty okay to come over. If you ever wanted, I mean.” Why was an entirely different question that remained unasked. If Sunny had free time, wouldn’t he rather spend it trying to talk to Abigail? The two seemed pretty close these days. He usually beelined for her on Friday nights at the saloon, offering those sheepish smiles and nervous glances. The memory twinged at his heartstrings, and he tossed the jealousy aside with a huff.

Sunny nodded, then handed Sebastian his phone back. He lifted his fishing pole up properly, winding the line back in before tossing it out into a different spot in the hopes of a bite this time around. 

“Why’d you come over, anyways? I never asked.”

Sunny pursed his lips, then gestured between the two of them a few times. Sebastian’s brow furrowed.

“To hang out?” he guessed, to which he was rewarded with vigorous nods. “Oh. Uh, okay. So it wasn’t just to borrow the basement temperatures, then? ‘Cause I wouldn’t blame you if you did, it’s so hot out.”

That gargling laugh escaped Sunny, the tension finally easing between them some. His grin widened as he shook his head. 

“Ew, don’t tell me you’re one of those _summer_ lovers.”

The laugh got louder between wheezes and choking sounds, equivalent to dragging a bag of charcoal along gravel. He nodded a few times, and ducked his smile behind his hand when Sebastian wrinkled his nose in feigned disgust.

“ _How?_ You like your skin becoming bacon anytime you go out?”

Sunny quirked an eyebrow at that, looking at his own arm. He poked it a few times, pretended to take a bite out of it, then stuck out his tongue in mock repugnance. 

“I didn’t mean literally, you weirdo.” Still, Sebastian - despite himself - felt himself grinning at the stupidity. “You’re a farmer, anyways. You’d probably taste like, I dunno, mulch and flowers or something.” He fanned himself a few times, and, after a brief deliberation, stripped off his sweatshirt. Screw it. He needed to stay cool somehow while getting his brain rewired for work. Speaking of - he tapped the end of his finished cigarette to snuff it out, then lit a second one.

It took him a moment to realize he was being stared at while he tied the sweatshirt around his waist.

“Yeah? Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

Sunny gulped, attention immediately shifting back to his rod. A loose bead of sweat dribbled down his jawline. So he wasn’t immune to summer either, after all. His thumb stroked the reel seat as he squinted out at the float. Then it disappeared beneath the water, the rod’s shaft bending at an incredible speed, almost snapping it in two.

Sunny gawked and Sebastian jerked back in surprise.

“You got something!” he said, internally cringing at his obvious statement. Sunny fumbled to reel in the line, body twisting to accommodate the fish’s sudden, reckless changes in direction in the fight for its life. The spool spun quick, doling out more of the line as the whopper swam toward the center of the lake away from them. Sunny gritted his teeth, yanking back the line by spinning the handle, eyes darting back and forth at the fish’s movements. 

It broke the surface for a fleeting moment - _what kind of fish is_ that? - before disappearing again, tugging the line in a complicated, zigzagging pattern. Sunny grunted, heels digging into the ground, biceps bulging as he _pulled_ at the rod, urging the fish to come towards them instead. The line whizzed and whined in defiance as the fish strained, its resistance beginning to wane. The length of the line shortened, closing in toward the shore.

“Heck of a fight,” Sebastian commented. Sunny nodded, slowing down his reeling pace to lessen the burden on the line. The fish’s tail flapped wildly at the surface before becoming eerily still within arm’s reach. “Is it dinner?”

The farmer shook his head. He squatted down and grabbed the line by the float, ready to bring up his haul, when the fish - in a stunning display of revived energy - squirmed and dove away with every ounce of strength it could muster. The line snapped twain, and Sunny, in a brilliant mastery of grace, flopped his arms about before floundering into the - _oh, shit!_

“Sun - !”

Against better judgment, Sebastian grabbed onto Sunny’s bicep in a feeble attempt to spare the man an impromptu bath. However, Sunny weighed what experts would call a “metric fuck ton,” rendering Sebastian’s good will null and void as they both toppled into the lake with a rapturous _sploosh._

Well, at least he wasn’t burning alive anymore. 

He sank a few feet, his splayed palms pressing against the clay-laden lakebed within seconds. Since they were close to shore, it wasn’t all too deep. He pushed himself up and resurfaced moments later, coughing up algae-flavored water. _Eugh._ He did his best wet-dog impersonation as he waddled out of the lake, shaking his limbs to rid himself of the excess. He glanced over his shoulder, watching Sunny pick up his hat and what remained of the rod. Poor thing didn’t stand a chance. 

“You have a craptastic sense of balance, you know that?”

Sunny pondered the assessment for a moment while looking over his hat and setting it atop of rock to dry. He gestured to his own body, as if to say, _just look at me, could you somehow balance all of this?_ before wringing his disheveled braid out. Yeesh, that’ll take awhile to dry, given just how much of it he had. Sebastian wondered just how long it extended - to his waist, maybe? He’d never have the patience to grow his own out. He fiddled with his bangs clinging to his forehead, then frowned.

Speaking of being soaked -

“Damn,” he muttered, pulling his waterlogged cellphone out of his pocket. Black screen of death. Nothing a little rice couldn’t fix, hopefully, if all those quikiHows were anything to go by. “That was stupid of me. Good thing you didn’t bring that phone of yours after all.”

Sunny nodded, then froze at the sight of Sebastian’s freshly deceased phone. He dropped his belongings on the banks before patting his pockets and pulling out a frayed leather wallet, now shriveling from lake exposure. He peeled it open and dumped its lackluster contents into his palm: four 100 G coins, a toothpick, a small laminated piece of paper, and some chapstick. He ushered the coins into Sebastian’s hand, head lowered.

“What? What’re you doing?” 

He pointed at the dead phone, then the coins. 

“Huh? Wait, are you trying to pay for it? That wasn’t your fault, it was the fish’s. Even if it was, four hundred Gs isn’t enough to pay the whole bill.” He tried pushing the Gs back to Sunny, who shook his head in defiance. “What - Sunny, come _on,_ don’t be so stubborn. Take your money back, I can fix it just fine. Take it _back_ \- dammit, just - put it towards a housing upgrade or something, I don’t know. _Hey._ ” He glared when Sunny folded his arms across his chest, refusing to accept the Gs back. “Don’t make me use the secret technique on you that Abby uses on me. You _won’t_ like it.”

That got his attention. A brief worried expression crossed his face, hands retracting back to his chest. 

“Yeah.” Hopefully he’d take the bait. Sebastian untied the sweatshirt and rung it out in the meantime, waiting for the seed of uncertainty to set its roots. If not, he’d actually have to come up with something. The winds began picking up, a little cooler now; he should’ve left the sweatshirt on the shore, because now it was getting a bit chilly. “Here,” he said, stacking the four coins next to Sunny’s boot, “no take-backs. Or _else._ ”

He sounded like a petulant child. However, his thinly-veiled threat appeared to work when Sunny forlornly put the coins back into his wallet. His pout intensified, displaying his dislike at the outcome, but he seemed resigned to Sebastian’s decision. Good. Taking that money would feel some kind of awful; 400 Gs wasn’t even enough for a pizza down at Gus’s.

He sneezed.

“Well, if I was tired before, I’m sure as shit awake now,” he said. “Mom’s gonna kill me for dragging mud through the house if I don’t die from the onset hypothermia first. It’s a joke,” he added when Sunny shot him an alarmed look, “it’s too hot out for me to get that. C’mon, I’ve got towels back at the house since it’s closer than your farm. Don’t worry, she’d never kill a potential customer, so you’re safe.”

The slight tension in Sunny’s hackled shoulders eased before he gave a quick nod. He scooped up his belongings - the damaged rod crooked awkwardly swinging against his back - and trudged behind Sebastian back to the house. Squishes of soaked clothing jostled with every swing of their arms and legs; it reminded him of the time he and Maru (in simpler days) slam-dunked each other fully clothed into the ocean. Mom gave them an earful and a half for that.

(Maru hadn’t developed into the budding star she was now. Back then, Sebastian could pretend for just a few years longer that he could be a role model, a big brother to be admired. The moment she tasted success, when her genius made its grandiose entrance in a brazen display of homegrown excellence, he toppled from his self-purported title and became but a shadow of his former glory.

Where did it go so wrong?)

He felt a tug on his collar, pulling him out of the way of an oncoming tree. Where the heck did that come from? The perpetual anxious expression adorning Sunny’s features met Sebastian’s perplexion. 

“You’re going to go gray early if you keep stressing over every little thing like that,” Sebastian said, shrugging Sunny’s hand off. “That majestic hair of yours is your key selling point to winning Abby’s heart over, so you _really_ should cut that out.”

Aw, _crap._ That’s not what he meant to say. His words came out heavier than usual, too, laced with simmering resentment at his own inability to get Abigail to look at _him_ instead. It’s not like Sunny knew any better. How could he? He wasn’t there when twelve-year-old Sebastian’s heart became acquainted with that fabled “butterfly” feeling upon seeing her in the right sunset lighting one day. He wasn’t there when Sebastian penned out dozens of half-finished confessions, all crumpled and tossed into the wastebasket. He wasn’t there when, on a day he scrounged up whatever courage he found in the recesses of his nerves, his blurted feelings became drowned out by the loud, cacophonous train whistle intermingling with the crying birds and bending trees and grumbling, distant thunder in a stunning impromptu concert of nature’s unwanted crescendo - a performance crafted only to dissuade Sebastian’s bravery from ever returning.

(“What did you say?” Abigail asked, just barely loud enough over the shrieking metal wheels of the train grinding against the tracks. “I didn’t catch that.”

“I,” he started, then looked to his feet. The train whistled again, further this time, granting him a new opening when it began to rain. He looked up, palm open towards the sky, catching the first plip-plops. “It’s nothing. Forget it.”

And forget she did.)

“Sorry,” he added, realizing a second too late that the elongated pause lasted too long, “that didn’t come out right. You two are,” he waved his hand, “you know, cool. Like. It’s cool. You know? Everyone knows about your crush, so - uh, just. Wishing you luck,” _shut up, just shut up, why are you still talking out of your ass?!_ “and stuff. Yeah.”

For a man so expressive, the sudden blankness and undeterminable countenance in Sunny’s face brought an eerie, uncomfortable atmosphere between them. He blinked a few times, brow furrowing a little, before looking away from Sebastian and staring at the nearby unripened blackberry bush. He stroked his chin, the furrow in his brow deepening, lips parting as if finally parsing Sebastian’s comments.

Then he shook his head. Vehemently.

“No?” Sebastian stared. “No… what? You _don’t_ have a crush on her?”

Many, many nods. So many his neck might very well break at the current velocity of up-down movements. Reality distorted into an alternate plain of existence, one where accepted truths became falsehoods in the matter of a simple gesture. Seriously? The mounting jealousy coiled deep beneath layers and layers of denial shriveled up and died like an unattended houseplant left to wither in the sun.

“But,” he said, confused, “you two have been getting really close lately. Even Sam’s noticed. You’re just friends? Not, you know. Potentially dating in secret?”

The seriousness enshrouding Sunny broke like a dinner plate smashed against a wall in an eruption of that laughter. He clutched at his stomach from how hard he wheezed, body trembling from the force of it. It almost was contagious in its ridiculousness, Sebastian struggling to retain composure despite his (apparently unfounded) worries. 

“Also a ‘no,’ I take it?”

After a few deep breaths to calm down, Sunny nudged Sebastian’s shoulder lightly and smiled, his dimples prominent. He then cupped his hands together, thumbs pressing imaginary buttons on an invisible gaming device. 

“Uhhh.” Sebastian squinted at the hardest version of charades to play. No vocal hints here. “Games? I know Abigail likes video games. Do you like them, too?”

A nod.

“And because you both like games,” he continued, speaking slowly and watching for any hints in Sunny’s body language, “you two are close because of that? No? Gaming buddies, then?” More nods, followed by Sunny imitating playing on an arcade machine. “Wait, _really?_ You _like_ that stupid-hard ‘Journey of the Prairie King’ thing?” 

The pieces fell into place in slow-motion: Sunny, on Friday nights, always came in to see Abigail, and while Sebastian and Sam played pool, they huddled around that machine to have secretive conversations. Except that wasn’t the case at _all_ ; Abigail was probably sharing tips on how to play.

They were just having fun, not dating. His distorted views and own shortcomings twisted something totally fine into something to be angry at himself over. He grimaced - _this isn’t the first time this has happened, and I still haven’t learned_ \- and looked away. 

“Okay,” he said, a new level of awkwardness washing over him. “Didn’t mean to make things weird between you two by saying things like that.”

Sunny waved his hands in front of him, as if to say _it’s all good, don’t worry,_ before nudging Sebastian’s shoulder one more time. He walked ahead of him, jerking his head towards Sebastian’s house with an inquisitive eyebrow raise. Sebastian let out a small sigh of relief and nodded, picking up his pace. The sooner he got out of these wet (and now itchy, eesh) clothes, the better.

Mom’s customer service smile diminished to an aghast expression in record time the moment they came through her door. She forced them to stay dripping by the front entrance while she fetched towels, a slew of Mom-esque admonishments of “dragging mud through my clean floors” and other such complaints echoing from down the hallway. Yeah, yeah; it wasn’t like she washed them, that was all Demetrius. And that man needed more to do other than speak nonsense about the environment or whatever.

“Here.” Mom handed Sebastian a towel first, then gave one to Sunny with a much more gentle look. Always got to make the customer feel at home or some bizarre customer service motto like that. Not that Sunny could even _afford_ her services, judging by his lack of money. “What even happened to you two?”

“A fish tried to drown us,” Sebastian deadpanned. “Didn’t work, obviously. Sunny extracted revenge by eating it raw afterward. You should’ve seen it.”

Sunny gawked, eyes widening, while Mom took no amusement from his joke and shook her head.

“Har har, dear child of mine. I’m sorry, Sunny. My son’s sense of humor is a little, shall we say, on the darker side of things. I know you didn’t actually eat a fish whole.” She sighed and placed her hands on her hips. “Once you’re dried off enough, you should get changed. Is your friend staying over for dinner tonight, Sebby?”

Sunny’s head lifted, surprised at something. Unfortunately, Sebastian had no idea over what. He shrugged. “I have work to do tonight, so probably not. Unless you want to.” He glanced at Sunny, who shrank in on himself again and pointed a thumb towards the front door. “Yeah, we’ll take a raincheck on that one, Mom. He’s got work to do too, I think.”

“Well.” Her service smile returned. “The offer’s open for next time then. Feel free to stop by anytime during our hours if you ever wanted to expand on that farm too, you know. Anyways, I’ll leave you be, there’s something I need to finish working on. Take care, Sunny. And Sebby, don’t forget to take your shoes off before going downstairs.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

With that, she returned to her counter space, fingers dancing on her old school calculator with rehearsed dexterity in crunching sales figures. Sebastian fluffed up his own hair and tilted his head toward Sunny.

“Hey.”

Sunny paused in folding his used towel (for whatever worth it did; the guy wore heavy denim and it remained utterly soaked) and pursed his lips at Sebastian’s call to attention.

“If you see Sam on your way back, could you tell him I’m busy and can’t hang out today? I don’t really feel like talking to anybody else right now. You’re fine,” he quickly added, because really, Sunny hadn’t talked much at all, “but I’m at my limit here for social interactions. Know what I mean?”

He nodded, appearing to understand completely. 

“Cool. I’ll pay you back somehow. Maybe I can look up some tips on the Internet for that arcade game you and Abby like to see if it helps somehow.” He shrugged, then gave him a wave. “See you around on Friday, maybe.”

Sunny nodded, and, after setting the folded towel onto the little stool by the door, left the house. Sebastian watched after him for a few moments, then let out a long, exhausted sigh. Good Yoba, he was going to strangle both Sam and himself for buying into the idea that Sunny had romantic interest in Abigail. He stewed in that thought for weeks and almost developed an anger towards a guy who had been only ever _nice_ to him.

Almost too nice.

When he was a kid, there was a classmate like that, too - quiet, polite, always eager to help people and make herself useful somehow. She offered snacks to the kids who didn’t have any, never interrupted anybody before speaking her piece, and checked up on her friends whenever they were down. “Friends,” more like. Because of her appearance - buck teeth, an ugly slope to her nose, sunken eyes and being chubby - no one actually liked her. They called her the “Chubby Chipmunk” and a handful of other schoolground insults behind her back. 

Sebastian heard all of them, and never said a word about it. It wasn’t his problem, even if she gave him a cute cartoon frog eraser for his birthday one year.

She disappeared in sixth grade. Everyone said she moved away because of her parents’ work. Then the rumors cropped up, saying that she died. He never heard of a satisfying, definitive answer about what actually happened to her. Stories needed a conclusion, but he figured he’d never know if she was still alive or not. 

He hoped she was, deep down. People like that - like her, like Sunny - were few and far between from his experience. 

Meandering down toward the bottom of the stairs, he paused in front of his bedroom door.

Just because _Sunny_ didn’t have a crush on Abigail, who was to say the other way around wasn’t true? Liking someone so conversationally stinted, yet so nice - any girl would be an idiot to pass him up. He scowled and pushed the thought aside; unless he asked her directly, he’d just be making assumptions again, and, well, look how that worked out _last_ time. He was half-tempted to ask her discreetly by shooting her a text, but - he looked at his dead phone - now probably wasn’t a good time. Not with so many deadlines on the horizon, at any rate. Work took precedence as always.

Another day, then.

(Just long enough to let the doubt come back in.)


End file.
